by Alan Millard
All that remained for me to do was to see if the doctrine of purgatory coincided with my condition. After a cursory look at the texts I decided it probably didn’t. I identified with some of it. The state of anguish and suffering I’d known all too well especially during the days of confusion after reading my own obituary. But I had no desire to expiate sins and I couldn’t agree with St. Catherine that by Divine grace purgatory was something we chose to endure. Despite my present advantages I’d rather be back in my other body doing the day to day things I’d always taken for granted.
Weary of reading I went upstairs to the museum where I found a bored-looking man showing his young son around.
‘What’s that daddy?’ the boy asked.
‘It’s a Penny Farthing bike.’ The child went on to ask what a farthing was and how much it was worth but got no reply. They moved on to the stuffed animal section.
‘What’s that daddy?’
‘A fox.’
‘Is it real?’
‘No, it’s dead.’ And so it went on, more eager questions and disinterested replies. At this point I longed to speak with the child, explain what a farthing was and tell him how many aniseed balls it could buy when I was a boy. I wanted to talk about foxes and how this beautiful creature had once been moving stealthily and going about its business. Knowing I wouldn’t be heard I realised how terribly lonely I was and always would be. And in that moment I envied the fox and wished to be dead myself rather than doomed to this half-life, trapped in a parallel universe, alone like the fox, encased behind glass.
I walked into town through the fog to another of Harold’s boyhood haunts, the Cadena café. I helped myself to a crusty roll from the counter. Unable to ask for a cup of coffee I joined the girl behind the counter, poured my own drink and found a seat next to an elderly couple. The man had a ratty face and wore a permanent frown. The woman, twice his size, had a round, flabby face and tightly-permed hair. The conversation was as dull as the day. ‘Busy, isn’t it?’ said the man.
‘No more than usual. Remind me to go to Marks when we leave,’
‘Don’t forget we’re on a meter.’
‘I won’t be long. You can wait in the car if you like.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Better drink up then.’
Every word depressingly predictable. It seemed from overhearing this exchange that listening to private conversations might not be as exciting as I’d hoped. It was time to try out the next of these so-called advantages of being unseen so I set off for Sainsbury’s. I usually shopped at Lidl to save money but it didn’t matter any more. Helping myself to carrier bags I toured he aisles and took what I wanted. I jumped the queue, thanked the girl at the checkout who took no notice and laden with shopping left to catch the next bus home.
Back in the house I lit the fire and watched the flames take hold as I had with Howard. It was some time since I’d played the Bach variations. Watching the flames thinking of Howard gave me the urge to hear them again so I put on the disc and fell asleep halfway though the music. It was half past six when I woke to the sound of cheerful voices. The bell ringing team was passing the cottage on their way to their practise. With nothing more pressing to do I left the cottage, went to the church and climbed up to the ringer’s room believing that without me there would only be four ringers present.
How true it is that no one is indispensable. Five were present, the usual four and their new apprentice, Mrs. Trott!
‘Don’t worry, Mrs. T,’ said Tom, ‘you’ll soon get the hang of the rope,’
‘If it doesn’t hang you first,’ added Jack, much to everyone’s amusement.
The general jollity was bad enough but what irked me more was how quickly Mrs. Trott learned what to do. My place had been usurped by a woman I’d never seen at a regular service. And such was the light-hearted banter it seemed that my absence was hardly noticed. I was tempted to do as I’d planned and seize one of the ropes to see what consternation it caused as it disappeared from everyone’s sight. But I didn’t bother. I was too depressed watching them all enjoy themselves without me.
When they left for the pub I reluctantly went along with them hoping I might still hear my name mentioned. While they ordered their drinks and sat at the table I went behind the to pull a pint for myself and joined them. Most of the talk was about their work.
‘How’s business these days?’ Jack asked.
‘Fine,’ said Mrs Trott. ‘Delivery day tomorrow, lugging boxes around at dawn when the lorry turns up.’
‘Should be a synch after tonight, you’ll have biceps like a boxer.’
‘Or else be bent double more like,’ said Mrs, Trott.
Fred Parker picked up his glass. ‘Have you told Mrs. Trott your news Nancy?’ Mrs. Trott pricked up her ears ready to hear the latest gossip.
Nancy blushed. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Well if she won’t tell you I will,’ said Tom. ‘She’s got a place at Cannington doing animal management. Starts in September.’
‘Shouldn’t think she needs a course in that living with you two,’ quipped Jack Mumford.
‘Well, that is a feather in your cap,’ said Mrs. Trott to Nancy. ‘I can see you’ll be taking over the farm one day.’
Fred pulled a face. ‘Not on your Nelly! We’re not having her bossing us about.’
‘Who’ll be taking over the shop when you bite the dust?’ asked Jack Mumford.
Mrs. Trott looked horrified. ‘No one I hope. I’m not planning on kicking the bucket for a few years yet.’
‘You never know,’ said Jack, ‘look at poor old Bill!’ At last I was mentioned.
‘Yes, poor Bill, but he hadn’t looked well for a long time,’ sighed Mrs. Trott.
As soon as she’d said it the subject was changed. Not wanting to hear any more I left them and pulled another pint, the second of many more. Long after they’d all departed I was still drinking and overhearing people’s gossip with little interest.
Listening to private conversations soon lost its appeal and as the next few days passed with more tiresome journeys to town, coffees at the Cadena and shopping sprees, the novelty of being invisible was wearing off as well. In its place depression and boredom descended both sticking fast as the fog that hung over the village. It must have been a few days before the funeral when the cold reality of my plight was to hit me in a way I hadn’t expected.
I’d returned from town with more shopping than I needed. The streets had been packed with people hunting for presents, wrapping paper, food and all of the excesses Christmas demands. I unloaded my bits and pieces then went to the churchyard to rue my lot and was filled with terror at what I saw. Wendy’s grave was covered with a sheet of artificial grass. Right next to it was a mountainous pile of freshly dug earth and a recently abandoned spade. Close by I heard Jack Mumford talking to the vicar. Their forms were indistinct, blurred by the fog. Jack was wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The vicar stood with his head bowed as Jack spoke. ‘Took longer than I thought vicar,’ he said. ‘More clay than I expected. Still, the job’s done. No rush to settle up. Anytime before Christmas will do.’
‘I’ll talk to Bill’s friend,’ said the vicar. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out. Thanks for doing it. I’m sorry it wasn’t as easy as you expected.’
‘Right, well I’ll fetch the spade and be on my way. Best not shake hands, not with mine covered in dirt.’
The vicar went back to the vicarage and I stood and watched Jack coming towards me. He picked up the spade and disappeared into the fog. Fearful thoughts ran through my mind. Although I was here, my other body would be laid out in a funeral parlour waiting to be brought to this desolate place for interment in two days time. Perhaps this body was not as substantial or as permanent as I imagined. On the day of my burial it might be reunited with the corpse in the c
offin. I tried to imagine how it would feel to be buried but conscious with nothing to see but the underside of a coffin lid assuming that could be seen. Could anything be seen in absolute darkness? On waking in the middle of the night I could pick out vague forms, a dressing gown hanging on the back of the door or the outline of the wardrobe. How would it feel to be shut up in a coffin with no light seeing nothing but darkness?
As much as I hated my present state the alternative was too awful to contemplate. I went back to the cottage trying to think of anything other than lying in that coffin. An odd phrase I remembered from my schooldays sprang to mind, ‘distraction from distraction by distraction’. I’d no idea who’d written it or what poem it came from but the phrase had stuck. Intent on distracting myself from distraction by distraction I caught the first bus into town on the following day and spent an hour or two at a window seat in the Cadena watching the world go by. I was on my third cup of coffee when the couple I’d met previously appeared and sat at my table with a pot of tea and two cream buns. Not wanting to hear them again I took a bite from the woman’s bun and left them to it.
There was nothing I needed in town but it was too early to go back to the cottage. For a change I decided to catch the bus to Sherborne and while away a few hours there. I went to the music shop which was empty apart from the elderly assistant who was peering through his rimless glasses at an old copy of the Gramophone. Without disturbing him I glanced idly at the collection of discs to see if anything appealed. I skipped over the Bach section not wanting to be reminded of Howard but remembering Priscilla playing me the slow movement of the Pathetique I hunted through the Beethoven discs and found it. Putting it in my pocket I thanked the assistant who didn’t look up from his magazine and walked down to the abbey. It was dark and damp inside and filled with tombs, plaques and marble effigies, all the reminders of death after life I’d set out to forget. Years back on a visit to the abbey with my parents I’d seen an exposed grave covered with glass which at that age was morbidly exciting. At the press of a button the interior lit up illuminating the bones of its occupant. I couldn’t recall where in the abbey the grave was and I had no intention of seeking it out. Eager to leave I went to a café across the road and killed another hour gazing from the window and helping myself to cakes and coffee. By the time I’d finished it was already dark and the fog was thickening. I considered walking home but feeling tired I opted for the bus.
After gorging myself in cafes I forewent dinner and spent the rest of the night in front of the fire listening to the slow movement of the Pathetique. I played it three times over recalling the bitter-sweet memories of my evening with Priscilla. Eventually my eyes began to droop and leaving the glowing embers to burn themselves out I went to bed.
It was five o’clock when I heard the church clock bell strike the hour. I opened my eyes. For a moment I lay in a sleepy daze forgetting what day it was. When I realised it was the day of the funeral my blood ran cold and panic seized me gripping my body like a vice. I climbed out of bed and stumbled across to the window where all I could see was fog rubbing against the pane. There were nine long hours to fill before the funeral, hours I had to endure but couldn’t think how. I felt the chimney breast hoping it might still be warm from last night’s fire. It was stone cold. Back in bed I tried to doze off but my mind was alert, teeming with dark thoughts racing around in endless circles. Once more I pictured the possibility of this being my last day in this present state. I stretched out on my back staring up at the ceiling and visualised being shut up in that coffin longing for light.
Not able to bear the silence I switched on the radio. Listening in to the shipping forecast I circumnavigated Britain sailing from Malin to Fair Isle and Forties to Humber through gentle breezes and violent storms carried along by the soft-spoken voice of the announcer. During Farming Today I was in the Vale of Evesham walking the length of a glass house inspecting tomatoes and soaking up the heat of the sun. I’ve no recollection of what happened after that except that I slept until ten o’clock. I felt calmer than when I had woken at five. The nine long hours of waiting had dwindled to four and that I could manage.
Feeling hungry I went to the fridge and selected a large sirloin steak which I thought would go well with petite potatoes and fresh garden peas. It wasn’t the kind of meal I normally ate for breakfast but this was no normal day. Just as condemned prisoners were supposedly offered a meal of their choice before execution I excused my greed on the chance that this might be the last meal before my own demise. The preparation took longer than boiling an egg or toasting bread but that was all to the good and would shorten the time of waiting until the hearse arrived. When the meal was ready I sat at the table and ate at a leisurely pace savouring every mouthful. I then cleared up more slowly than usual and turned on the radio. The Woman’s Hour serial was just finishing. The eleven o’clock news bulletin was followed by a dull documentary on bees and a half-hour comedy that failed to amuse me. You and Yours brought me to the weather forecast and the promise of more fog. During The World at One I kept going to the window. Halfway through the programme I saw a car swing around the corner and stop just short of the path to the church. I hurriedly threw on a coat over my old clothes and went out to see who it was. It crossed my mind that I was unsuitably dressed for a funeral but since I was the person to be interred it didn’t much matter.
There were two people in the car talking. I was pleased to know there’d at least be one more person at my funeral than there were at Howard’s. I walked over to the driver’s door where Arthur Dawes and Geoff Godwin were deep in conversation with the window slightly opened. Arthur was halfway through a sentence when Geoff interrupted him. ‘I had a similar experience,’ Geoff said. ‘An aunt of mine passed away suddenly and somebody had to take control so, like you, I stepped into the breach. Mind you, it was all a bit of a palaver as you can well imagine, what with her having been gaga for as long as I can remember and the house being in the state it was, a total shambles to put it mildly, but I soon had everything organised and, even though I say it myself who shouldn’t, it all went rather well considering. Jolly good spread afterwards too. Mind you, I did have power of attorney which made things rather easier than it must be for you.’
‘Yes,’ said Arthur looking wearier than when I last saw him. ‘But despite his faults Bill was a good egg. I’m sure he’d have done the same for any of us.’ I wondered what faults of mine he had in mind but there was no point in asking.
Geoff looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t we make a move?’
‘No, let’s wait for the others. They’ll be here shortly.’ Almost as soon as the words were out a second car pulled up behind them. Bob Wilson looking as bored as ever climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened the doors for the others. Michael Farrow appeared and waited impatiently for David Green to follow. When he did he looked as though he had no idea where he was or why he was there.
As the gang assembled several people walked past the cottage making their way to the church. I saw Bill Mumford and his wife, the Parker trio, Mrs Trott and various members of the eight and ten o’clock Sunday congregations whose faces I recognised but couldn’t have named. I was about to follow the procession to the church door when another vehicle drove around the corner and stopped. I waited to see who it was and felt my heart miss a beat when a slim woman dressed in black with a veil over her face stepped out and walked towards me. There was no mistaking who it was, the only person there I felt really close to. The face behind the veil was Priscilla’s.
Ignoring everyone I waited for her to join me. We walked up the gravel path together. I longed to lift her veil and take hold of her hand. I wanted her to know that I was as close as I’d ever been. The others went on ahead and filled the front pews. Priscilla sat behind them believing she was alone without realising I was there sitting next to her. She rested one hand on her lap and I couldn’t resist placing my own hand over hers. I hoped she’d rea
ct in some way and sense my presence but she didn’t. For those few moments I felt strangely calm as if I were with her watching the funeral of somebody other than me. No one talked except Geoff who was whispering something to Arthur. Then everyone stood and my blood ran cold as the vicar processed down the aisle chanting those all too familiar words with the coffin bearers following in his wake carrying the remains of my other self. When the coffin was lowered on to the bier in front of the altar the bearers made a dignified exit to light up their cigarettes as soon as they were outside and engage in whatever they talked about while the ceremony was in progress.
I remember very little about the short service. The vicar said a few words in praise of my work for the church and how I could now be reunited with Wendy. Arthur stood in the pulpit and in his self-assured headteacher’s voice delivered a short address in which he mentioned my merits but none of my faults. The only hymn was All Things Bright and Beautiful probably chosen since most of the congregation would know it. Everyone sang with surprising gusto. It was strange to hear Priscilla’s soft soprano voice which until now I’d never heard. Hearing her sing was the only point in the service when I felt at peace and my fears over what might happen later were briefly stilled. But the apprehension and dread returned as soon as the service ended and everyone filed out to Bach’s Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring. We followed the coffin into the fog and gathered around the open grave.
I watched as the coffin, supported in straps, hovered over the gaping hole. I held my breath and gripped Priscilla’s hand as a drowning man might hold on to a lifebelt. Would this be the moment I disappeared into the dark?