Midnight in Westminster Abbey

by Sean Dennis Cashman

  After the Chancer family climbed the steps back up to Westminster Bridge, they ate fish and chips in a pub on the edge of Whitehall. This traditional English lunch made Ginny feel even more British. Then they walked around the Houses of Parliament. They stopped at the statue of, revolutionary parliamentary leader, Oliver Cromwell. Georgie wanted to linger. Charlie had never known a kid so fascinated by statues as Georgie. He wondered if his son had the makings of a sculptor.

  Then they went into Westminster Abbey. Charlie paid the visitor fees using a debit card. He reckoned that Georgie was getting tired. He held his son’s hand as they sat at the front of the great nave before the chancel.

  A skinny woman with wispy white hair peering out of a black beret set roguishly on her head sat next to them. Without any introduction, she asked directly, “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Ginny answered. “We’re from New York. I’m here on a student exchange. I’m staying with my aunt who is British. She lives in Camden. My folks are visiting to be with me just before my first Thanksgiving away from home.”

  The old woman asked directly, “Does your father work in downtown Manhattan?”

  Ginny thought this was very forward. Before she could stop him, Georgie answered simply, “Yes. He’s a commodities trader on Wall Street.”

  Ginny noticed the old lady’s eyes widen.

  The nosy neighbour did not follow Georgie’s answer with some question about what a commodities trader did. If she had, Ginny had her answer ready. But it was not necessary for young Georgie was all fired up.

  “Commodities markets trade primary materials rather than manufactured ones.” Georgie paused. But, instead of stumbling, he dug into his memory and started again. “Farmers and miners can’t simply rely on delivery next year for payment of their products. They need funds as they farm and mine this year. So we have commodities trading. Investing in what we expect of markets.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked the lady.

  “My dad came to school to give us a talk on his work,” Georgie answered.

  The old lady looked Ginny and Georgie up and down as if she were appraising them. Her next question was personal and awkward.

  “Are you really brother and sister? You look so different.”

  Indeed they did. For the old woman was comparing Ginny’s pastel brown face and limbs and Georgie’s yellow hair and pale but lustrous skin. Again, before Ginny could caution him, Georgie answered with the innocent charm of a youngster who had not yet learned not to give away too much to strangers.

  “We look different because we have different mothers. Our dad works in New York but he met Ginny’s mother in London when they were both in college. He had a scholarship for a year at LSE. She was from the West Indies. When she and Dad got married, she moved to New York. That’s where Ginny was born.”

  Ginny’s cheeks reddened. That piqued the nosy old lady’s persistent interest even more.

  “Where is Ginny’s mother now?”

  Charlie had said nothing until now, partly because with the hub of people, he had not heard all the questions. Now he did hear. He did not like his children being put upon by a stranger. Besides, he thought she looked like the witch in ‘Hansel and Gretel’. He wanted to put this old woman down with some smart aleck remark but, instead, all he said was, “Ginny’s mother was killed in an auto accident.”

  Now it was Ginny’s turn to be surprised because her father’s answer was mighty economical with the truth. But Ginny understood. Besides keeping the nosy intruder off the scent, her father was shielding her from the harsh memory of her mother’s tragic death. Her mother, Genna, had been working as a teaching assistant in a school just over the state line from New York. One dark day, a lone psycho gunman on a rampage shot dead several children and their teachers in the school yard. Genna had been one of the casualties. It had been big news and had provoked yet another heated debate in America on gun control versus the right to bear arms.

  The old lady’s unwanted question made Charlie sit up sharp—psychologically speaking. It was of now-or-never importance for Charlie to bond with his two children and for them to bond with one another. He had stolen ten precious days to have both of them together with him away from New York. He knew he had damn well better use it before the police caught up with him.

  The old lady sensed that father and daughter were keeping a lid on a big psychological story. She surmised that she could bend this dark back story (and how uncomfortable it made them feel) to her own interests. But she was biding her time.

  Gazing steadily at Georgie’s golden hair she said, "Your brother looks like a young angel. Like the tender princes in the Tower. Nice.

  “My name’s Pippa,” she added as a token peace offering to smooth over the difficulty in the conversation.

  Changing the subject, Georgie said, “The abbey is like lots of old churches but much grander. Is it a cathedral? Since it’s called Westminster Abbey, is it an abbey with monks and nuns?”

  “It’s been all these things in its time,” answered Pippa. “But now it’s called a Royal Peculiar. Besides advertising tourism in England, they hold regular church services here. But Westminster Abbey is mainly known across the world as the site for coronations, royal weddings and as the hallowed resting place of kings and queens all the way from Henry III in the 1200s to George II in the 1700s.”

  Then Pippa went back to probing. She addressed Charlie almost like a queen to a courtier.

  “So, you dealt with your grief over your first wife’s tragic death with a second marriage—this time to an American blonde—and your son is by this second marriage. Your union was blest with issue.”

  Charlie was beside himself but he did not want to cause a scene.

  Amused at Charlie’s embarrassment, old Pippa fixed her gaze to study him more intently. She saw a good-looking man, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, with aquiline features. His dark hair was just beginning to go grey in a most becoming way—real film star potential she thought. She also noticed that his brow was furrowed and that his eyes looked haunted.

  Charlie, still annoyed, smiled encouragingly to Ginny as if to say, “This irritating old bat will soon be out of our hair.” What he said aloud was, “Let’s concentrate on the singing.”

  The strains of a choir somewhere in the abbey—perhaps rehearsing—began to flood through the great nave. It was as if the music was made up of acoustic spirals. The organ supplied the bass while tenor and alto voices sang the tune and trebles sang a descant above them. The sound soared into the arches of the abbey ceiling.

  COCKAIGNE—IN LONDON TOWN

  Ginny had not noticed him at first—a slender young man sitting two seats over from her. When the young guy turned towards her, he smiled—and it was a dazzling smile in his olive-coloured oval face under lank dark hair. She checked herself and concentrated on his clothes—a sort of rough leather blouson jerkin and scruffy leggings—but not so baggy that, when he moved seats to sit next to her, they concealed shapely thighs.

  Spontaneously, she whispered, “My name is Ginny—short for Virginia—Ginny Chancer. What’s yours?”

  Surprisingly, the young man looked at niggling old Pippa just behind them for some assurance that he was allowed to reply. Reacting to some slight permission, he answered, “Walter. I’m an orderly.”

  “That means he looks after the casualties,” interjected Pippa as a throw-away remark that Ginny did not understand.

  “Shimmering smile,” Pippa said, reading Ginny’s romantic thoughts. “But that’s enough of this dazzling monotony,” she added sharply.

  “Excuse me, sir, can I ask you a question?” Walter began almost contritely to Charlie. “It’s not personal—at least not really.”

  “And?” Charlie answered curtly. Surely, the young stranger was not going to ask for a tip on the stock market.

  “This is my question,” resumed Walter. “Is it true now that improved technology—greater reliance on c
omputers for trading—that this means that machines are taking over? That computers can buy and sell commodities without human dealers?”

  Charlie never failed to be surprised by some Brits—how, when you least expected it, out would pop some comment that showed they were not sleeping through the political decline of the UK.

  His first wife, Genna, had first told him about this. Then he had observed it for himself. After all, it was scholarly Brit Sir Tim Berners Lee whose IT skills and foresight had led to the invention of the World Wide Web. Were Charlie’s IT skills the next target of young Walter and old lady Pippa?

  All Charlie said, however, was, “You mean that people like me are becoming dinosaur floor-traders?”

  Walter did not have time to answer. Instead, from behind, She-Who-Never-Went-Away took over with yet another question. “So you have to be super-dooper on the web to do your job?”

  Charlie could be modesty incarnate when he saw a need for it.

  “Well,” he began, “in my work, you have to move with the times, go with the flow. It does require keeping an eye on the ball.”

  Walter and Pippa’s questions made Charlie reflect on his skills and his career. Back home in New York, Charlie Chancer did have particular IT skills. He could fast-read spreadsheets and excel at Excel and he was a quick study at any new software developments. He was widely liked by his co-workers because he had the upbeat manner of a New York City slicker. It helped that he had the bright open face of a TV prankster—his gleaming teeth always willing to smile. He was the office pinup. A keen gym rat, he regularly took precautions to look at least weeks younger than his early forties. But he was not deeply liked in the office. His co-workers thought he was too glib.

  “And you’re good at taking risks?”

  Old Pippa said to herself, “Chancer by name and chancer by nature. He’s perfect, exactly the man we need.”

  Charlie’s debit card payment of abbey fees had left tell-tale information that Pippa had stored in her mind. Then she and the young man were lost in the hubbub of abbey visitors.

  Charlie had already noted the informed guides in the abbey, some paid, some volunteers, who answered questions. He recalled the American term for such volunteers in American museums: docents.

  An overhead chance remark by a guide made him decide he and his kids should take a risk and stay in Westminster Abbey after closing. He heard one of these docents say to a French tourist, “There’s a legend that the kings and queens commemorated here come to life once a year on All Souls’ Eve. They relive their past glories and, after a secret ceremony, they become party animals.”

  “What’s that and when is it?” asked the French visitor.

  As if by rote, the docent, a tall man with close-cropped grey hair and a dark, razor-sharp moustache, **answered, “All Souls’ Day** commemorates the faithful departed—like our nearest and dearest relatives. We think Pope Gregory III started the All Souls’ celebration in Rome. It’s now commonly held on 2 November. But it’s associated with three days altogether: All Saints Eve or Halloween on 31 October, All Souls’ Eve on 1 November and then All Souls’ Day itself on 2 November.”

  Charlie had long been fascinated by the English royals. As an ultra-patriotic American, he did not want to see any form of UK constitutional monarchy in the US. But, as he saw it, conflicts between private lives and public duties among leading figures—well Charlie felt these were entertainingly exemplified by the English royals. The modern royals’ amorous scandals were better than any convoluted sex plots in TV soaps. Besides, Charlie’s superior on Wall Street was always boasting how he had once attended a summer garden party at Buckingham Palace where the queen had deigned to ask him a question before moving on. Charlie never tired of being irritated by this boast—but he was envious just the same.

  The other part of Charlie’s fascination with the English royals had come from his adored first wife, Genna. She and her family may have come from the West Indies but they saw themselves as English through and through. She interpreted English kings as loving parental figures. Liking them helped Charlie keep her blessed memory alive. He had never stopped loving her: her welcoming smile, her friendly face, her ample breasts, her lovely curves and her generous spirit. He could not think of Genna without his eyes welling up.

  And so it was that, at the news about kings and queens rising from their graves, Charlie forgot all about the batty old lady. He felt challenged by the dim prospect of seeing departed kings and queens. He interrupted the docent to be sure he had got the dates right.

  “So, today, which is 1 November, is All Souls’ Eve.”

  “Right,” answered the docent.

  Charlie was excited. True, he did not like the way the haughty docent had used his index finger to stroke his moustache. Ginny had watched enough TV imports from the UK to recognise a typical smiling villain. Charlie and Ginny characterised such stereotypes as ‘Mr Slime’.

  Nevertheless, Charlie asked Ginny and Georgie, “Wouldn’t you like to see this—the old kings and queens coming to life?”

  “Sure,” answered Ginny for Georgie as well as herself. “And if nothing happens, we’ll know there’s nothing behind the façade of monarchy.”

  They sat down again and listened to the evensong service. Ginny adjusted her hearing aid so that she could hear the music better. Just before the end, everyone was distracted by the unmistakeable sound of a balloon being popped. A man and a woman with a small boy holding two balloons high by strings had come in the main tourist entrance of the abbey. They asked a guard if they could leave fliers to promote their French circus visiting London: Cirque Royale.

  Charlie covered Georgie’s mouth with his hand to prevent him expressing any delight about the circus. The guard at the door answered the visitors’ request with a not so polite, “No. No creepy clowns in the cloisters.” The visitors started to leave sulkily. Charlie thought the guard could have been nicer.

  Georgie said, “Let’s go to the circus.” He added, “Please. I’d like to see lions and tigers.”

  Charlie told him, “I don’t think they have animals in circus acts anywhere in Europe these days. It’s considered cruel. Besides, European circuses focus on novelty acts—gymnasts, trapeze artists, jugglers, quick-change artists and so on.”

  Charlie sensed Georgie’s disappointment. He resolved to get his family to this visiting circus while they were still in London.

  A voice from a seat behind them said, “You don’t need to hide in nooks and crannies to see the kings and queens rise out of their graves. There’s a room of special purpose. You can rest there without being disturbed while you wait.”

  None of the family needed to turn around to know who it was. The inquisitive old lady continued imperturbably with her plan of action.

  “Yes, it is true,” said Pippa. “The kings and queens do rise and shine on All Souls’ Eve. I’ve seen them—at any rate some of them.”

  At this, the Chancer family did turn around. Pippa winked at them.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “Wait till everyone’s gone and I’ll show you.”

  Ginny said, “For Georgie and me, just staying up late with Dad is heaven.”

  “Like every day is sundae?”

  “Right,” answered Ginny, adding to Georgie, “that’s a pun.”

  With that, they followed Pippa to a side door cut into the wall. Inside was an old plain table, one plain wooden chair, a surprising reclining chair, a worn chaise longue and an individual prayer desk.

  Charlie reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. Before he could take out his wallet, Pippa said, “Please, no. There’s no need to flash the cash. I’m simply glad to be able to do you this favour. You’re doing enough for us here in Westminster Abbey as it is.”

  The little family did not know what to make of this remark.

  Pippa continued, “Just wait here. There’ll be ceremonial music. That will be your cue to go back into the nave of the abbey and see the kings and queens for yourselves
. Until we meet again, au revoir.”

  Suddenly, Pippa was gone. As she passed the snooty docent on the way out, she said inconsequentially, “Dinner is served.”

  Charlie, Ginny and Georgie looked at the walls of the room. They were studded with eighteenth-century portraits of people in white wigs. The plain table had writing paper and pens. There was a carafe of water and three glasses aside a bible and a book of common prayer. There was also a tin with Christmas wrapping. Inside was a round paper doily with a confectionery message: “Eat up and spoil yourself.” And below the confectionery message were mixed biscuits so delicious looking that they did not need the message. So hungry were the tourists that they tucked in.

  Then Ginny and Georgie curled up on the ample chaise longue. After he sipped a glass of water, Charlie fell asleep in the reclining chair. London water was hard, even bitter—nothing like as nice as New York water.

  While they dozed, they dreamed. Ginny dreamed of a Hollywood medieval world of dashing knights and fair ladies all in spotless Technicolor. Charlie was thinking that the night-time world of English kings was not so different from cutthroat New York finance. Georgie dreamed of being warm again.

  After mysterious music woke Ginny and Georgie up, curiosity got the better of them. Charlie was still flat out, Ginny said to Georgie, “Dad’s still tired out. Let’s take a peek. We can wake him later.”

  2 THE KINGS’ RIDE

  CURTAIN UP

  Ginny did not know what happened next. Once she and Georgie left the waiting room, they inched their way up the north aisle of Westminster Abbey. But when Ginny turned around to look back, she was alone. She was too surprised to ask “Where’s Georgie?”

  Ginny knew she was now in a different world—the same but different. It was still recognisably Westminster Abbey yet different. The colours were muted. The stone pillars looked creamier and seemed more immense. That might have been because there were far fewer pieces of furniture around—especially chairs. But there was a great deal of builders’ tackle with outsize stone blocks ready for use. There were many tools stored alongside some wooden carts and various contraptions to hoist stones into place. There was a lovely smell of lavender. Ginny took a deep breath. Before her was a large open doorway with two sculpted figures carved into the doorposts, one on either side. They looked muddy green. Above the ornamental top ran a metal sign: