The Translation of the Bones

by Francesca Kay

  Dressing for the evening has a ritual quality about it, Stella thought. As for a priestess in an Attic temple preparing for sacrifice, there were ceremonial adornments to put on in a special order. She looked at herself carefully in the bathroom mirror. Brushing shadow onto her eyelids, underlining them with charcoal gray, she saw a face that did not entirely fit her own. Something had been lost behind those dark-fringed eyes but she did not know what it was.

  That night, a little later, Mary-Margaret O’Reilly accepted a cup of tea from a ward assistant and stretched out luxuriously in her bed. Beneath her the white cotton sheet slithered against the plastic-covered mattress. She had seen the doctor, who had said she could go home. Her head was mending well and the nurse at her local GP practice could take her stitches out next week. Her wrist needed only to be kept strapped up. The doctor had sounded jolly and encouraging, sure that he was the bringer of good news. Mary-Margaret had not the heart to tell him she’d much rather stay where she was for the next week or so. She liked the companionship of the mixed ward, the old fella who always stopped at the foot of her bed to pass the time of day on his way to and from the toilets; Myrna, who knew the secrets of so many celebrated hearts—film stars and football players’ wives and that girl who was on Big Brother—and had, in addition, the blessing of a great many cheerful grandchildren who brightened up the place no end. She liked the high and narrow bed and its white-painted bars. She liked being given a jug of water with a special lid. It was a very pleasant change to have her meals served to her, food that she had neither had to buy nor to cook. She liked the gravy, thick and shiny as melted caramel, the pats of butter like little bars of treasure in their wrappings of gold. No, she was not yet ready to give these comforts up. Of course she burned to be with Him again. But at the same time she felt a curious need to let more time elapse. When Sister came round in the morning, Mary-Margaret decided, she would tell her how badly her head pained her and how she really should be left to rest.

  In another narrow bed, this one the bottom half of a bunk, Felix Morrison was thinking about British Summer Time. Spring forward, fall back. In the middle of the night he would lose a whole hour of his life, but that didn’t really add up to much, if you did the maths. How many hours had he lived already? Twenty-four times three hundred and sixty-five times ten, and seven months—well, he could do that in his head; just about, it came to ninety-two thousand, six hundred, and forty, or something, but then there were uneven months and leap years, how many of those had there been in his lifetime? Years divisible by four: 2000, 2004, 2008—add twenty-four times these. Hold on, of course, you’d get the lost hours back when the clocks changed again in winter. So maybe it was a pointless calculation after all. But it helped to pass the miserable hours of darkness and enforced confinement, when Felix so often lay awake while above and all around him other schoolboys slept. It was better to do sums than to remember the missed pass that afternoon and his captain’s scorn at tea, or to count the minutes until the end of term, and home.

  Father Diamond adjusted his watch first and then the clock on the mantelpiece in time to the chimes of the ten o’clock news. It was irritating that, although these two would now both be in time for this one moment, all the other clocks that had to be adjusted—the central heating, the radio alarm beside his bed, in the sacristy and in the church itself—would perforce be inaccurate, if only by a second or so. He watched the news. Swine flu, the recession, two more British soldiers killed in Afghanistan. “O the mind, mind has mountains,” he quoted to himself. “Cliffs of fall.” When the news was finished, he took his coffee cup into the kitchen and washed it. His house backed onto a high wall and beyond it was the river. It was quiet there at night.

  Stella envisaged the darkness of the river and for a moment closed her eyes. All around her there was noise. Cutlery and glasses, shouted conversations and guffaws. The man on her left had turned to her during the main course with ill-disguised reluctance; she recognized his struggle to find something he could talk to her about. His kind was bored by women. I was at school with your husband, he said. But in a different house, of course, and possibly a year or two above. In the bad old days, Stella said brightly. Rufus says it is much better now. Since they stopped the canings.

  Bloody stupid of them, if you ask me. Did us a world of good. That’s the trouble now; no discipline. Lot of whingers and too many bleeding hearts. A good thrashing’s part of growing up.

  But surely you can’t approve of children hitting other children? That’s what happened, wasn’t it? The prefects were allowed to do the canings—

  What d’you mean, children? We weren’t children, we were men. And a sight more decent than what passes for men in some quarters nowadays. Bring it all back, I say.

  The street sounds of a Saturday night rose up toward Fidelma where she sat by her open window; muffled, because they were so far below; voices, motorbikes and music, the pulsing beat of rhythmic bass notes like a heart’s thud heard within the womb. Drumbeats. Tribal drums, like jungle messages or the lambegs—was that the word?—those fellows that played them, with their bowler hats and gray-potato faces. It was queer, now that she thought about it, those stiff figures and their iron laws—Ulster Says No Surrender; Beware the Antichrist—and yet the same God-fearing fingers on the wild drumsticks, thudding out those urgent calls. Thump, thump, thump, they must be echoes, surely, of the pulse of heartbeats in the rhymes of love. Thump, thump, thump, and the bedsprings creaking, hush now or you’ll wake the young ones up. But those men in their black hats, like versions of the wee fellows on the sacks of Homepride flour, those men and their marching, ah well, their thoughts were very far from love.

  Fidelma ate the Fray Bentos steak pie that had been in the kitchen cupboard, and some beans. There was nothing much to drink but Bushmills. Stocks were getting low, but no doubt Mary-Margaret would be back before much longer. Fidelma supposed she would be glad to see her daughter. She was weary of sitting here in her own smells. The bass beats thudded out and she sat and heard them; she thought they echoed her own heart.

  Stella and Rufus, coming home on Sunday evening, wondered what the crowd was doing, milling round the church at the end of the crescent. Must have been a wedding, Rufus said. Unlikely on a Sunday, Stella thought, but did not contradict him, her mind only on whether there would be an e-mail waiting from Camilla.

  Father Diamond had also been surprised, much earlier in the day. Later he was cross. With Father O’Connor away, it was his duty to say both the Sunday masses. He had gone into the church via the sacristy, through the side door, at the end of the path which connected it to his house. He had not seen the knot of people gathered at the front.

  So early in the morning it was dark. For a few moments Father Diamond stood stock-still in the darkness, encircled by the shrouded statues, breathing in grave scents of damp and stone and dust. A silent place, empty but for God. Then he switched on all the lights. Moving down the nave, straightening a pew that had been knocked out of alignment, he checked that all was as it should be before he, by sacramental grace, made God incarnate in that earthly space.

  Father Diamond’s early Sunday morning server, Major Wetherby, was late. The priest had to make the preparations by himself. In the sacristy he filled a cruet with wine and water and a ciborium with bread. He laid out his own vestments—alb, cincture, stole and chasuble—in the somber color of Lent. The linen was kept in the shallow drawers of an old oak press; he took what he needed from them—altar cloth and frontal, purifiers, another starched white cloth for the credence table. He readied a chalice. Then he went back into the church. He put the offerings in their place, and a missal on the credence table. There was a second table to the right for the bell and the vessel of water. The white cloths unfolded in his hands like a fall of sudden snow. Lastly he lit the candles on the altar.

  It was 7:45. There was still no sign of Major Wetherby so Father Diamond took the great iron key from its hook beside the main door and opened the doo
r himself. Before he had pushed it fully open, a throng of people jostled past him, shouldering him aside. Usually there were no more than a handful of worshipers at the early mass on Sunday; he had never seen a queue before. Looking at these people he saw that they were mainly women, mainly young, and also, possibly, foreign. Had he overlooked an important commemoration or a beloved patron saint’s feast day? He couldn’t think of one. He said good morning and went back to the sacristy.

  Even now, after so many years, the final minutes before the start of every mass were touched by fear. Father Diamond knew the fear of a diver on the edge of a springboard, of a dancer in the wings waiting for his call. Each time, every single day, as he watched the minute hand, he would be gripped by dread: would he be able to walk through the sacristy door into the sanctuary; could he be confident of grace? It could be lonely, at the altar.

  He vested, saying silent prayers. Lord, gird me about with the cincture of purity and extinguish my fleshly desires that the virtue of continence and chastity may abide within me. The chasuble was heavy on his shoulders. Stiff purple silk. 7:56. Major Wetherby came in through the side door, puffing. In the nick, he said. Top of the morning, Father. He put on his cassock and surplice hastily. Then both he and Father Diamond bowed their heads to the image of the Sacred Heart before Major Wetherby opened the door on the dot of 8:00 and clanged the bell. He led the way and Father Diamond followed, bearing the chalice covered with a purifier, a pall, a purple veil and a corporal folded in a matching burse.

  Father Diamond kept his head bent over the precious chalice and his eyes lowered until he reached his place behind the altar. Then he looked up, anticipating the joyful sight of a sizable congregation, a change from the familiar few faces he was used to seeing. They were there, in their accustomed pews. But the others, the visitors, were not in the pews at all but, from the sound of it, gathered in the Chapel of the Holy Souls. Father Diamond waited for a minute to give them time to settle down. Perhaps they had not heard the bell. He cleared his throat. There was scant response. Two or three did detach themselves from the rest and slid into a pew. The others stayed where they were, mostly hidden from him. He got on with saying mass.

  In the course of it he became irritably aware that the visitors were not only staying segregated in the chapel but also making quite a lot of noise. A prayerful noise certainly, some sort of litany perhaps, but other noises too: furniture scraping on the tiled floor, a great deal of excited chatter, the ring tones of mobile phones. More people kept arriving. Just before he began to say the Eucharistic Prayer he saw Miss Daly, a regular, bustle from her seat into the chapel. Voices were raised. Miss Daly returned to her pew, looking flustered and indignant. Father Diamond plowed on. He had no choice. It was a relief to see that a lot of the visitors did come up for Holy Communion. Some of them had covered their heads with lace.

  When the mass was ended, Father Diamond followed Major Wetherby into the sacristy and started to disrobe. What the devil was all that about? Major Wetherby was asking, when there was a sharp knock at the door and Miss Daly came bristling in. Do come out at once and put a stop to all this nonsense, she demanded. Those stupid women are paying no heed to me at all. Father Diamond, struggling out of his alb, heard the note of outrage in her voice. He handed the garment to the major and followed Miss Daly to the chapel. There he found several women lying prostrate on the floor, others kneeling, and at least one apparently in tears. The altar was in disarray and the Lenten veil had been pulled off the crucifix. Every candle on the pricket stand was lit. O most holy blood of Jesus, a voice was chanting, over and over again. What is all this? Father Diamond asked. Who took off the veil? A woman detached herself from the group. You are blessed, she said. This place is going to be well famous.

  Mary-Margaret, on Sunday morning, looked regretfully at the breakfast she would not allow herself to eat. Scrambled egg and button mushrooms. Triangles of toast. An hour ago she had tried to whiten her complexion with a little Ajax from a tin she had found on a windowsill in the bathroom but the grains were too coarse to stick. If anything, they made her redder. When an assistant came to take away her uneaten food, Mary-Margaret would not let her. It was important for the nurse in charge to see she could not take a bite.

  But Sister, when she came, was angry with the assistant and not at all sympathetic to her patient. She looked at Mary-Margaret’s wrist, listened to her account of the terrible pains that pierced her head, dispensed two acetaminophen and told her to get dressed. You’re absolutely fine, dear, she said firmly. Take two acetaminophen, at no more than four-hourly intervals, if you need them, but do not exceed eight tablets a day. See your GP if you experience further problems. Don’t forget to get those stitches taken out.

  Mary-Margaret, forlorn, put on her pullover and her denim skirt. It was only then she noticed the bloodstains on the skirt. It looked bad, she knew, as if she’d had a shameful accident, but she had nothing else to wear. She could hardly make her way back home in a hospital nightie. It was lucky the ambulance men had had the wit to keep her united with her shopping bag and fleece. She got dressed slowly. Her wrist hurt and she couldn’t do up her bra single-handed. Life wasn’t fair, she thought.

  It was still early and she had to wait a long time for a bus. While she waited, she tried to bring to mind what food there had been at home when she left on Thursday. She wondered what her mother had done about her meals. Now she wished she had eaten up that breakfast—she was feeling wobbly and, besides, her ploy had made no difference.

  There was no direct bus route between her home and St. Elizabeth’s. As Mary-Margaret would have to change buses in any case, she thought she might as well go via the Co-op. In the well-lit and warm shop she began to feel more cheerful. There were Cadbury’s chocolate fingers on special offer, buy one, get one free. Thinking back to her uneaten breakfast she put eggs into her basket, a tin of mushrooms, a loaf and a packet of ham. A pint of milk to be on the safe side. A jar of sandwich spread. That would do for now, she felt. It was as much as she could carry. She could always go out again later, and get something else for tea.

  The second bus came quickly. For such small mercies let us give thanks. But for some reason she could not quite identify, Mary-Margaret was in no hurry to get home. She could scarcely remember when she had last spent a night away from her mother. Her final summer at school, perhaps, when the nuns had arranged a trip to Normandy, to venerate the bones of St. Thérèse? Nearly all the fifth form went—they had stayed in the order’s sister house. Oh, that had been a happy time. She remembered the journey there by train and ferry. The sea spray flying up toward her at the railing, the cold salt taste of it in her mouth. The feel of it came back to her now, and she wanted even less to shut herself up in the stinky, creaky lift of her tower block. Fidelma’s great unmoving bulk spread like a black stain on her vision.

  She decided instead to get a cup of tea from the takeout at the bottom of the block and drink it on the bench beside the children’s play area. At that time on a Sunday morning, the area might well have children in it, rather than youths with drugs and dogs. There was even a glimmer of sunshine. After that, she’d see about dropping in on Him. Excitement fluttered through her at the thought.

  She bought the tea with difficulty, it being hard to manage with her shopping on one arm. She had had to put everything down to rummage for her purse, and its clasp had proved well-nigh impossible. It does make you feel for the properly disabled, she observed to the man behind the counter, but he didn’t seem to understand her, and only waited patiently while she fumbled for the coins. She would have liked him to inquire about her wrist and head.

  In the broken-down play area there were children clambering on the roundabout and the swings. Mary-Margaret knew most of them. Among them were some of the many children of Mrs. Abdi, who lived on the same floor as the O’Reillys. So many, it was a struggle to tell them apart, but Mary-Margaret had made the effort. This morning she saw Hodan, Faduma, Sagal, Samatar, Bahdoon, and he
r favorite, the small one, Shamso, of the tight black curls. He was so sweet, that Shamso, with his great big eyes and his round cheeks, just like a gorgeous, cuddly doll. Today he was dressed in an odd array of hand-me-downs—jogging bottoms that were too big for him, a dirty T-shirt, and on top of that what looked like a ballerina costume. Pink nylon and pink netting, the shoestring straps slipping off his shoulders. Mary-Margaret took one of the packets of chocolate fingers from her bag. Shamso, she called, waving the packet at him. They all came, of course, and clustered round her but Shamso clambered up onto the bench beside her and snuggled against her side. She could feel his elbow, his little, pointy chin. Chocolate from his fingers added to the stains already on her skirt. But it didn’t matter. It would all come out in the wash. Mary-Margaret put her good arm round him, drank her sweet, strong tea, shared her biscuit breakfast with the Abdis and raised her face to the pale sun that shone a tentative path between the tower blocks.

  Mrs. Armitage and her husband arrived in good time for the solemn mass, the second mass of Sunday. They found the church door locked and a restive group of people gathered outside. They were perplexed. Maybe Father D has been called out to a deathbed, Mrs. Armitage speculated. It can’t be easy for him on a Sunday, what with Father O’Connor away. Two masses, and that’s not counting Saturday’s, but still, it’s not like him to shut the church. Especially not during Lent. Perhaps he’s ill, her husband said. Oh no, said Mrs. Armitage. Not if I know him. He’d have to be on his own deathbed before he’d think of doing that. They eyed the waiting people curiously. They seemed a bit agitated. Girls on some sort of sightseeing thing, Mrs. Armitage told Larry. You know, one of those tours with all the stops prearranged. That must be why they’re taking pictures. Although we’re not usually on the tourist map. Their tour guide must’ve got it wrong, said Larry. Battersea and Westminster, well, they are both by the river. Maybe they sound the same in Japanese. Honestly, Larry! Mrs. Armitage clicked her tongue against her teeth.