‘That’s fine,’ I said.
I took the bottle and screwed back the top as tightly as I could, while he struggled to get up, leaving an untidy, earthy patch on the grave ,which I tried to stamp down with my foot.
I put the bottle into my trouser pocket and took his arm to steady him.
‘Where is it?’ he asked and I gave him the bottle.
He shook it and stared at it, whispering something about Billie’s grave, and then he put it in his habit pocket.
A grin spread all over his face. ‘I can take him with me … just a bit?’
‘It’s just a reminder,’ I said. ‘Like a souvenir, kind of. Not exactly, but sort of, kind of.’
‘He’s not really there, Francis.’
‘Billie is everywhere,.’ I said.
I knew what I wanted to do next. I tied the lead to the wooden fence while Joseph stood staring at the grave.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We have to celebrate. We have to dance for Billie. Dance round his grave. Come on, Joseph.’
And I took both his earthy, grubby hands, smelled his rancid, warm breath, saw the filthy habit but heard the laughter, the giggling laughter of a naughty child. And I began to pull him round the grave, side-step, side-step, gallop, gallop, gallop. He was bent double laughing and I began to dance and sing,
I danced on a Friday when the sky turned black –
It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.
They buried my body and they thought I’d gone,
but I am the Dance, and I still go on.
He did the best gallop he could and together we went around the grave holding hands, while the rabbit nibbled away at the grass.
Chapter 41
When I visited his grave, I was surprised to find the house in such a state. I don’t know what I expected. I knew the abbey had been bought and was to become a hotel; I should have expected the chaos.
I had to park in the lane, as the area outside, where Guy and I had parked our cars, was blocked by builders’ vans. They were expecting me and, unlike the first time, I was welcomed in by the new owner, Max Sinclair, who, wearing jeans and a T-shirt hanging loose, his hair ruffled and dusty with plaster, looked distracted.
The noise from drills, hammers and men shouting as the place heaved with workmen almost drowned out his voice. He looked momentarily irritated. He was with an architect, he explained but I was welcome to visit the grave and could I find my own way?
‘We’ve had to do a bit of work over there,’ he said and handed me a key. ‘It’s locked now. Sorry to be rushed.’
The entrance hall was empty of furniture and covered in dust, as were the French windows, one of which was open. I was sad and uncomfortable to see it all like that. The lawn was still the same and the cedar tree, and I could have cried to see the rope still hanging there. Then I wanted to laugh.
The rose garden had gone and in its place was a swimming pool, tiled in blue, now empty; it wasn’t finished, for the paving around it was incomplete. I guessed the visitors’ block would become changing rooms and showers, even a sauna, for this was going to be quite a hotel when it was completed.
The Monks’ Walk had not been touched and I was sure it would be left for visitors to enjoy, much as the monks had done.
Everything around there was familiar. I didn’t go to the dogs’ run – couldn’t face that – but went directly to the graveyard, which had been fenced in with high, sturdy fencing and the overgrown entrance cleared for a new wrought-iron gate, which was padlocked.
Inside was as untidy as ever, though; I was pleased about that. I wouldn’t have like it to have been sanitised. Of course, I knew where the grave would be, and there it was, next to Billie’s. Grass had not covered it yet; it was still just a mound of earth, but with the usual gravestone and inscription: Here lies Brother Joseph, 1900–1983. May his soul rest in peace.
‘I’ve come to see you, Joseph. You are at peace now,’ I said, ‘and right here with Billie. What you wanted. You will be so very pleased about that. I can hear your chuckle! I hope you liked the cards I wrote you with the animal pictures. It was lucky to find the rabbit ones.
‘Joseph, this will make you happy. I want you to know that I have Francis now. They let me have him. And I have the collar and lead, just the same. He’s happy, Joseph, and so am I. He hops around the garden and around the house, though mainly the kitchen, but he does have a cage, just for night-time. Sometimes he sits on my lap. It’s like having a cat! Can rabbits be like cats, do you think? Oh, Joseph, you would laugh. My house isn’t lonely any more, the silences have gone and I don’t have to have the radio on all the time.
‘I am well, although I still have some medication; not pleased about that, nor pleased that I have to see a therapist every week, but she is good, and anyway it was Hobson’s, because the doctor said it was that or hospital. So no choice, really. Anyway, it’s all working and it feels right to come back here, too. I do believe now that God, whatever that is, is powerless but inspirational and loving. We all know how difficult that is, don’t we, Joseph? To love and be powerless. And it’s true what Matthew said, that if we humans don’t do it, it won’t get done. But it’s OK, I can move on now.
‘Work is good. Busy, but that’s good too. Oh – and I’m playing tennis again. Things are looking up. I’m only forty-one, and I expect, sometime, someone will ask me to dance!
‘I have had a letter from Guy, by the way; he’s back in general practice and happy, it seems. Not sure if I will see him again, but you never know.
‘Now, Joseph, don’t think me completely mad, but, besides these flowers, I have brought something from Francis. You’ll never guess. Look!’
I took the little jar out of my bag, opened it and sprinkled the rabbit’s droppings all over his grave. And the tears turned to bursts of laughter. Laughter.
‘Bye, Joseph’ – but it’s never goodbye, really. I stood for a little while longer but then, job done, completed, I left for home.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Sarah and Kate of Muswell Press for wise advice and support.
To Kate Quarry for sensitive editing.
And to Piers Plowright for constant encouragement and help.
A Note on the Author
Sylvia Colley was born in Eastleigh, Hamshire. She became an English teacher and spent many years as head of English at the Purcell School in North London.
She has published two books of poetry, Juliet and It’s Not What I Wanted Though and a novel, Lights on Dark Water, to good reviews. Her poetry has been read on BBC Radio and a documentary The Tale of Three Daughters, about her life and work, was produced by Piers Plowright for Radio 4. She lives in Pinner, Middlesex.
Copyright
First published by Muswell Press in 2018
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Copyright © Sylvia Colley 2018
Sylvia Colley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Verse 4 of the text of “I danced in the morning (Lord of the Dance)” (Sydney
Carter 1915-2004), © 1963 Stainer& Bell Ltd, 23 Gruneisen Road, London N3
1DZ, England, www.stainer.co.uk is used by kind permission. All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any
resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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