Winter of Grace

by Kate Constable

  ‘A presence?’

  ‘Yes. The spiritual or the sacred. It’s real, it feels real.’

  Elliot stared up at the night sky. Here at the edge of the city, there was so much light that hardly any stars were visible, just a murky blanket of dark. ‘Millions of people, all through history, in every culture, have believed in sorcery, too. And that the world was flat. Just because lots of people believe something doesn’t make it true.’

  ‘No, I get that. But doesn’t it seem, I dunno, slightly hypocritical to condemn all religious people for being fanatics, when he’s just as rigid and intolerant about atheism being right?’

  Elliot laughed softly. ‘I came to hear Martinez because I wanted him to convince me. But I think he’s pushed me the other way. I don’t know what I believe any more. I do know that a lot of unintelligent people believe in God. Trust me, I’ve met them. But it’s just not true to say that everyone who believes in God is stupid. There are plenty of wise, thoughtful, intelligent people who are religious, not just Christians. And if there is a God, he’s everyone’s God, right? There are plenty of people in the world who have had an experience of something bigger, something beyond humanity.’

  ‘And I’m not going to throw that away just because some smart-arse, patronising, smug professor tells me to,’ I said, with a vehemence that surprised me.

  Elliot stretched his legs. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Martinez talks about how arrogant the early believers were, thinking the earth was the centre of the universe. But isn’t it just as arrogant to assume that human consciousness is the centre of the universe, that that’s all there is?’

  ‘Science can explain a lot, but it can’t explain everything.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want science to explain away courage and music, and imagination and poetry and sacrifice and joy … and love,’ Elliot said.

  Was he looking at me? ‘I’m not sure I want to boil everything down to – to random chemicals.’

  ‘There’s got to be more to being human.’

  ‘Maybe he’s wrong, maybe human beings do need religion,’ I said. ‘When I think back to my life before I believed in God, it seems sort of empty, and pointless, and shallow.’ My voice faltered. So I did still believe in God, did I? Maybe Jay was right: He wouldn’t let me go. After a second I went on, ‘I mean, I understand what he said about morality, I know we can work out that killing and hurting is wrong without needing a God to spell it out for us.’

  ‘And a sense of wonder.’ Elliot gestured up to the sky, to the stars. ‘He’s right; you can get that from looking through a telescope, or down a microscope.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ I cried. ‘What’s the point?’

  Elliot didn’t reply, and we sat there in silence for a moment, looking up at the night, at all the hidden, infinite stars.

  ‘God won’t tell you what it all means, Bridie,’ Elliot said at last. ‘Nor what it’s all for. You have to work that out for yourself. God is … God is like a poem. God just is.’

  ‘God is a poem,’ I murmured. ‘I like that.’

  Elliot sighed and tucked his legs underneath the bench, so he was leaning forward, his hands shoved in his pockets, his breath a stream of mist. ‘God is the Light,’ he said. ‘That’s what the Quakers say. Have you heard of the Quakers?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘The Society of Friends is their proper name. Sounds good, doesn’t it? They believe the Light of God is inside every person, so all people should be treated equally, and with respect. They don’t have priests, or preachers, not formally. At their meetings, everyone sits in silence until someone feels moved to speak.’

  ‘No singing and dancing?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Are you going to join these Quaker people?’

  He looked away. ‘It’s not that simple for me, Bridie. Northside is my family, my friends, my home, my whole life. Walking away from all that …’ He fell silent.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was so much easier for me.

  ‘Jay’s out the front with the others, shouting Martinez burn in hell,’ Elliot said abruptly.

  ‘I know. I saw him.’

  ‘I thought you were planning to be there, too?’

  ‘That’s not what I want from my God,’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘No,’ said Elliot. ‘I want a God that opens things out, not narrows them down. Do you know what I mean?’

  He turned his scowly-face on me, the first time I’d seen the scowly-face in weeks. It was like a glimpse of the real Elliot, not the bland mask he’d worn at church. I felt a sting of happiness that he’d let me see it.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s what God means to me. That’s exactly it. God means there’s more to the world, more to my life. He makes everything richer, and more meaningful – not smaller, not less.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elliot. ‘But sometimes it seems like the more we talk about God, the smaller He gets.’

  ‘Is that why you like the Quakers? For the silence?’

  Elliot snorted. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  A silence of our own grew up between us – a comfortable, textured silence. I could have sat there forever, in spite of the cold and the dark. Elliot knew so much more than I did; he’d read more, thought more, talked to more people, explored so much further than I had. But it didn’t seem to matter. It felt like we were equals. I felt closer to God in that silence with Elliot than I had for a long time. It was as if the clouds of our breath wreathed around a presence hidden in the dark and made it visible.

  Elliot jiggled his knees in the cold. ‘Have you thought about what course you’re going to do?’

  ‘I guess Arts. Maybe English.’

  ‘You could try Philosophy.’ Suddenly he stood up and looked down at me from his great height, hands thrust deep in his pockets. ‘We’d better go back.’

  I stood up too. ‘Stella’s still inside. We’re supposed to meet Mum, afterwards.’

  ‘It was good talking to you, Bridie. I wish––’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said suddenly. ‘I didn’t answer your message the other night.’

  He frowned, as if he’d forgotten all about it. ‘Oh, that’s okay.’

  ‘Let me know how you go with the Quakers.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He looked back toward the building. ‘If—’ Abruptly, he began to stride back the way we’d come. I had to trot to keep up. Security guards were blocking all the doors now, so we doubled back through the cloisters and around to the front of the building. The noise of jeers and shouting grew steadily louder; the crowd of protesters weren’t chatting happily any more. Their faces were distorted as they yelled their chants and jabbed their placards in the air, pushing against the line of security guards.

  Elliot stopped and swore under his breath: the first time I’d heard a Northsider swear. My heart was pounding.

  ‘There’s Jay,’ Elliot said, and in the same instant Jay’s eye met mine. He looked from Elliot to me and back again. I felt like yelling out, It’s not what you think. But perhaps it was.

  Jay forced his way out of the crowd to where we stood. He was panting for breath, his eye-patch askew. ‘This is awful,’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t think it’d be like this.’

  ‘What did you think it would be like?’ said Elliot grimly.

  The mob was howling, We want Martinez! We want Martinez! It was scary, an animal sound. There was a sudden roar as the double doors swung open and the protesters surged forward. I just caught a glimpse of Mum, with Stella behind her, as the security line bulged, then broke, and the crowd stampeded. I screamed, and ran blindly forward. But Elliot was beside me, and he was quicker.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ I shrieked, but I couldn’t hear my own voice. Jay was grabbing at my coat; people were pushing and shoving in all directions. I wrenched out of Jay’s grip and butted through the crowd to Mum. She was on the ground, a dazed expression on her face, touching her fingertips to her head and staring at the blood. Elliot knelt beside her. He asked her something but
she didn’t seem to hear.

  I hurled myself down on the concrete and flung my arms around her.

  ‘Bridie, I’m okay. It’s okay, Bridie.’ Even now, Mum wouldn’t admit she needed help. She struggled feebly to get up, but I wouldn’t let her, and at last she subsided against me and let me squeeze my arms around her.

  Jay was squatting beside me, saying something about Elliot. It took me a few moments to understand that he’d gone to find a taxi for us. Between us, we helped Mum stand up and she swayed against us.

  Then suddenly Stella was there, her pale hair all over her face, her eyes wild, her skin blotched.

  ‘Where the hell did you go?’ she screamed at me. ‘Where the hell were you?’

  I gaped at her. ‘I told you I was going outside.’

  ‘Went out to join your little friends, did you? You’re still one of them, aren’t you?’ She glared at Jay. ‘Well, are you happy now? Look what you’ve done!’

  ‘It wasn’t Jay’s fault,’ I cried. ‘It was an accident!’

  ‘Some accident! They tried to kill us!’

  ‘What, with chanting? Are you crazy?’

  ‘Girls,’ said Mum faintly, pressing her hand to the cut on her forehead. ‘Girls, please.’

  Elliot was at my elbow. ‘I’ve got a taxi. This way.’

  ‘Get lost!’ screamed Stella. ‘You and your mental brother and your mates, this is all your fault!’

  ‘Shut up, you insane bigot!’ I shouted at her.

  ‘You’re hysterical,’ said Elliot to Stella, or maybe to both of us. ‘You’re probably in shock. This way, Lisa.’

  He took Mum’s arm and steered her firmly through the crowd, with me and Stella still screaming at each other, and Jay, who seemed mute with shock, trailing behind. Outside the university gate a taxi was waiting. Elliot bundled Mum and me and Stella into the back seat. As we drove off, I saw him put his arm across Jay’s shoulders, and they turned away.

  It was only then that I thought to wind down the window and yell out, ‘Thank you!’ But I don’t know if they heard me.

  I slumped back in my seat, my legs like jelly. Mum fumbled for my hand. ‘Bridie? Are you … coming home?’

  I nodded; my eyes were spilling with tears. Stella was still glaring at me with venom in her pale blue eyes.

  ‘Stella, we’ll drop you at home,’ said Mum, organising again; she was recovering already.

  ‘I can walk from your place,’ said Stella stiffly.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mum. ‘It’s on our way.’

  ‘I can pick up my stuff,’ I said. ‘My schoolbag.’

  Stella and I looked at each other across the taxi. A pulse throbbed in my neck. ‘Okay,’ Stella said coldly.

  The three of us sat silently in the taxi while the driver told us about his rotten night, how he’d driven all the way to Werribee and not been paid. When we arrived at Stella’s, she said, ‘Thanks, Lisa,’ and scrambled out of the door without looking at me. I unclicked my belt and followed her.

  ‘I’ll be two secs,’ I told Mum.

  But before I was fully out of the taxi, I could see something was wrong. The front door was open, spilling yellow light down the steps, and Mish was waiting at the gate, in a thin cardigan and yoga pants, her arms wrapped around herself.

  ‘Mum?’ Stella’s voice rose in panic. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Darling.’ Mish held out her hands. ‘It’s your nana, she’s … she’s had a heart attack.’

  Stella’s face was white. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She died, Stella-bear. She’s dead.’

  Stella stumbled into her mother’s arms. Mish caught her and led her up the steps.

  They forgot to shut the door. I hesitated on the porch; the taxi was still running. I could hear Tark crying, and right down at the back of the big room Scarlet scooped up Tim and hid her face against his squirming body. I couldn’t see Paul; maybe he wasn’t there. Maybe he was with Nana Kincaid, wherever she was – her house, hospital?

  She couldn’t be dead. How could she be dead?

  ‘Bridie?’ called Mum from the taxi. ‘What’s happening?’

  I held up my hand to her and then I darted inside and into the girls’ room. My mattress was still laid out on the floor, ready for me. When I saw it, a lump rose in my throat. I grabbed my clothes from the back of the chair, my books, my school shoes, and shoved them in my pack. Then I tiptoed to the front door, seized the handle, and softly pulled it closed behind me.

  THE FUNERAL WAS on Thursday, at St John of the Cross.

  It was my first funeral. I guess I’d been pretty lucky to make it to sixteen without knowing anyone who’d died.

  I didn’t expect Mum to come. ‘You know it’s in a church?’ I said.

  Mum frowned into the mirror as she adjusted her earrings. ‘I don’t give a damn whether it’s in a church or not. I’m coming for Nora and for Paul and Mish and the kids. This is not about me.’ She looked me up and down. ‘You look very nice.’

  I was wearing the skirt and shirt that I’d worn the first time Stella and I went to Northside: nice clothes, for Nana.

  Nana Kincaid was the closest thing to a grandmother in my life, not counting my Brisbane gran, for obvious reasons. Nana Kincaid was often at Stella’s, and always there for birthdays and parties. Sometimes, when we were younger, Stella and I went to her house after school and pigged out on bikkies. She always remembered to ask me about school, and how Mum was.

  She was only eighty. That’s not very old, these days. She’d had a massive heart attack. Paul had rung her and got no answer, so he went round to her house and found her lying in bed as if she were still asleep. Was it better to die like that, without knowing anything about it, or to be sick for a while first, so you could say goodbye to people and be prepared? Prepared for what? Heaven? Hell? Or nothing?

  The church was full of people in dark clothes, rustling and murmuring under the drone of the organ. I recognised lots of Kincaid faces from family gatherings. I felt sick in the stomach. A mist of sadness smothered the whole church.

  At Northside, the atmosphere had been like helium, tugging everyone up, up and away into a frenzy of excitement. I wondered what a funeral at Northside would be like. I’d never seen Pastor Matt do sad; he didn’t believe in dwelling on negative emotions. He’d probably say that we shouldn’t be sad when someone dies, because they’d gone to be with God, and we should rejoice for them.

  Rejoice? Nana was gone; how could anything fill the aching emptiness where she used to be?

  The organ music changed and all Nana’s family shuffled down the aisle to the front pews. Stella and Scarlet were holding hands, their fair heads bent, and Mish’s arm was around Tark. Paul helped to carry in the coffin. His face was set in a grimace, and I realised he was trying not to break down.

  ‘On the day of her baptism, our sister Nora was clothed in Christ and given the flame of faith. May Christ now welcome her to the throne of grace.’

  The mysterious words rolled through the church, and the congregation murmured their replies.

  ‘Faithful God, you have lovingly brought Nora’s journey to an end. As we grieve her death we live in the hope that death opens out into glory. Amen.’

  Gone into glory, gone into grace. I thought of Nana, looking out at the world through those shrewd blue eyes; eating, breathing, thinking, smiling. Now she lay inside that polished box. I swallowed hard.

  ‘The Lord is kind and merciful …’

  This was it. This was what it was all about: death. I was scared of dying. I couldn’t get my mind around the fact that one day I would just stop existing. I wanted to believe that my spirit would go on, somehow – in heaven, or somewhere.

  Angels, tooth fairy, Easter bunny, God.

  ‘As for a man, his days are like grass; he flowers like the flower of the field; the wind blows and he is gone.’

  I thought about all the soldiers and the young men and the children killed in the war. For every death, a family struck with grief
; for every death, a crowd of people mourning. Behind every cold number, a person who’d laughed and danced and felt afraid, who’d argued and cuddled and sang.

  Tears trickled down my face. Mum reached out and squeezed my hand, and I held it tight. One day it would be Mum up there inside the coffin; one day it would be me. But it didn’t seem real; that could never happen to us.

  I could feel God. He was here in the church, but I couldn’t see Him. He was speaking to me, but I couldn’t understand what He said. The words of the service washed over me like beautiful poetry, incomprehensible, infinitely sad, mysteriously comforting.

  God is a poem, Elliot had said. I felt the poetry of the ancient ritual, the solemn weight of words. Maybe this was where God lived, in the words, in the acts of ritual that humans created. Maybe the very act of reaching out let us touch the mystery we reached out for.

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord. If anyone believes in me, even though he dies, he will live. Anyone who lives and believes in me will not die. Alleluia.’

  I felt my hand clasped in Mum’s, the comfort of warm flesh. And underneath, the cold, hard bones.

  ‘Give her eternal rest, O Lord, and may your light shine on her forever.’

  ‘Amen,’ I whispered, and then I heard Mum whisper, ‘Amen.’

  Afterwards, the congregation milled around outside the church talking, as if it was a weird, subdued, old people’s party.

  Mum checked her watch. ‘I’ll have to leave for work soon. Do you want to go to school or back to the Kincaids’ for the wake?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘After they take the body to be buried.’ The body. Not Nana, not Nora, not Mrs Kincaid. Not a person any more, just a body, just a husk. ‘After the burial, everyone will go back to Mish and Paul’s for a drink and something to eat.’

  ‘I don’t think Stella will want me,’ I said bitterly.