This was chest high, wood-framed, with a front of glass – ancient glass, he could tell, because it was completely clear and smooth, with none of the rippling effect produced by modern glazing. It was cracked in the top right-hand corner. The shelves were also made of the finest glass, and by the light of the candle the objects they supported seemed to hover magically in mid-air. All of them it was illegal to possess: coins and plastic banknotes from the Elizabethan era, keys, gold rings, pens, glassware, a plate commemorating a royal wedding, thin metal canisters, a bundle of plastic straws, a plastic swaddler with faded images of storks carrying infants, white plastic cutlery, plastic bottles of all shapes and varieties, toy plastic bricks all fitted together of vibrant yellows and reds, a spool of greenish-blue plastic fishing line, a plastic flesh-coloured baby from which the eyes were missing, and, on the topmost shelf, propped up on a clear plastic stand, what seemed to be the pride of the collection: one of the devices used by the ancients to communicate.
Fairfax had seen fragments of them before, but never one in such a perfect state of preservation. He felt drawn to it, and this time, despite himself, he could not resist opening the cabinet and taking it out. It was thinner than his little finger, smaller than his hand, black and smooth and shiny, fashioned out of plastic and glass. It weighed quite heavy in his palm, pleasingly substantial. He wondered who had owned it and how the priest had come by it. What images might it once have conveyed? What sounds might have emerged from it? He pressed the button on the front, as if it might miraculously spring to life, but the glossy surface remained resolutely black and dead, and all he could see was the reflection of his own face, ghostly in the candlelight. He turned it over. On the back was the ultimate symbol of the ancients’ hubris and blasphemy – an apple with a bite taken out of it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Wednesday 10th April: an unexpected incident at the burial
HE BLEW OUT the candles and went back to bed, pulling the patchwork quilt up to his chin. In the darkness he found it easier to put the symbols of the old priest’s heresy out of his mind. Indeed, such was his weariness that, despite his various perturbations, the hard couch soon seemed to dissolve beneath him and his breathing became deep and regular.
His second sleep was more dream-filled than his first, although afterwards he could not remember any of them, apart from the last, a recurrent nightmare that had started soon after his parents and sister had died of the sweating fever and around the time he had been sent to live with his elderly uncle. He imagined himself pursued barefoot through a strange neighbourhood, searching for a particular street, a certain house, a special door. Only when he found it, after hours of searching – a mean, shabby building in a poor district – and broke open the lock and tumbled over the threshold did he see his family again. Silently, they held out their hands to him, and always in that instant he awoke.
His eyes flickered open. The room was grey with the early light. He felt an ache of unease at the back of his mind, turned his head and saw dimly the glass cabinet with its floating objects. The memory of the night returned.
He threw off the cover and knelt by the couch. He clenched his hands in prayer so tightly his knuckles shone white. Dear Father, I thank thee for sparing me to see another day. Grant me I beseech thee the strength to resist temptation, and the piety to serve thy glory today and for ever more. Amen.
Keeping his eyes from the bookshelves and the cabinet, he stood, drew back the curtains and opened the little window. The air was cool and damp, silent, still. At the bottom of the lane he could see the church with its limp flag, the village behind it, and further beyond that, rising like waves, the steep green sides of the valley dotted with foamy white sheep beneath a low grey threatening sky.
On the table next to the windowsill a jug of water had been put out for him, together with a basin, a small mirror, a towel and a piece of old-fashioned black soap that stank of potash. He couldn’t bring himself to use it – to carry around that chemical smell all day would remind him too much of chilly mornings in the seminary, queuing shivering in his underclothes to use the pump.
He splashed his face with the cold water and ran his wet hands through his hair and beard, then inspected his appearance in the mirror. He had let his beard grow as all priests did. Like his hair, it was thick and dark. He was careful to keep it cut square in the modern fashion. And yet it seemed not to impart any sense of gravity to his appearance. His skin, pallid after a winter spent mostly in the cathedral, was too smooth. There was too much youthful eagerness in his eyes. He tried frowning at his reflection, but decided he looked ridiculous.
The clock in the passage showed just after seven. From the kitchen came the sound of pots and pans being moved. He called out, ‘Good morning!’ and went through into the parlour, where the table had been laid for his breakfast. The window here looked directly along the cart track that served as the village’s main street. A woman was carrying a heavy pitcher carefully on her head, presumably on her way back from a communal well. A man in a smock was leading a mule. They greeted one another and walked on together. Fairfax stood watching until they were out of sight.
He heard a noise behind him and turned to find a young woman at the table in the act of setting down a plate. He had not heard her enter. For some reason he had imagined Mrs Budd’s niece to be a plain, rough country girl. Instead she was slim, with a pale oval face, large blue eyes, and abundant black hair tied up by a blue ribbon that emphasised her delicate long white neck. The fact that she was dressed in mourning made her appearance all the more striking, and he feared he must have stared too hard at her, for when, after a pause to recover his surprise, he said cheerfully, ‘Good morning, you must be Rose – a welcome sight to brighten a drab day!’ she turned and fled without a word.
When it was clear she would not be returning, he sat at the table and gazed with regret at the plate of cold mutton and cheese. Such was his tragedy: to possess an ardent nature and yet be denied an outlet for it. In consequence he lacked any aptitude or experience with women. The society at the cathedral was exclusively male: chastity was the prime constraint placed upon the clergy. He could not deny to himself that he regretted the prohibition, but he struggled to observe it and had certainly never thought to question it. And yet it was said that in England before the Apocalypse most priests had been married, and that in the final decades, women themselves had actually been permitted to celebrate Holy Communion! Surely that was not the least of the blasphemies that had brought down God’s wrath upon the world.
The door opened again and he turned eagerly in the hopes of making amends. But it was only Agnes carrying a teapot. ‘Good morning, Father.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Budd.’
‘Ye’ll take some tea? Father Lacy favoured Cornish, but we’ve Highland if ye prefers.’
‘Cornish suits me well enough.’ He watched her pour it carefully into the bowl, one hand grasping the teapot handle, the other holding the lid. ‘I fear I may have startled your niece.’
‘Oh, pay her no mind. She’s shy as a fawn.’
‘Still, I would have liked to have had some conversation with her.’ He added, ‘About her sadly altered circumstances.’
‘Ye’ll never do that, more’s the pity.’
‘Why not?’
‘She speaks not.’
‘What – never?’
‘No, she were born without the talent for it.’
Now he felt his clumsiness even more keenly. ‘I am very sorry to hear it.’
‘God’s will, Father.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eighteen.’
After Agnes had gone, he cupped his bowl of tea and tried to imagine what would become of the poor girl after her home was taken from her. Would she return to her family? Would they even take her back given that she was dumb, and presumably hard to marry off, despite her looks? Perhaps, after all, he should ask the bishop if there was any chance he might be able to take the living. He pictured the
three of them sharing the house together. By his gentleness he would gain her trust. In the long winter evenings he might even teach her to overcome her affliction. And in his daily struggle to master temptation he would move closer to God. Would it really be such a bad life?
By the time he had finished his tea, Fairfax had almost convinced himself that his destiny would take this improbable – indeed, self-torturing – twist, and he found he was able to set to work on his breakfast with gusto.
He fetched his bag from the study, closed the door firmly, crossed himself, and returned to the parlour to finish writing his address. This had become a much more challenging task since his discoveries between the first and second sleeps, and for the next two hours he struggled to reconcile the teachings of the Church with what he now knew of Father Lacy. He blew on his hands to warm them. He lit another pipe. From time to time he broke off to stare out of the window. The light was not improving. If anything, it was getting darker. Eventually it started to rain – not the soft, misty rain of the previous day, but a real downpour that hammered on the roof and cascaded in waterfalls over the edges of the gutters.
Agnes spent the morning ferrying dishes to the church. Eventually she brought him a candle. From somewhere far in the distance came a heavy boom that rolled around the valley. He looked up. ‘Thunder?’
‘Can’t be thunder with no lightning, Father. That’ll be blasting in the quarry.’
‘Even in this weather?’
She didn’t answer. Something beyond the window had distracted her. A group of five hooded men was coming out of the side gate of the churchyard, their heads bent against the rain. Four looked uncomfortable in their dark Sabbath suits; one wore the red surplice of a parish clerk. They hurried across the road towards the parsonage.
Agnes spoke in a flat voice. ‘So they’ve come to take him. Must be almost time.’
She went to the front door to let them in. He heard their voices – hushed, respectful – and their boots stamping on the flagstone floor to knock off the mud and water. Footsteps clumped up the staircase. Agnes reappeared in the doorway with the red-clad figure behind her. Fairfax got to his feet. She said, ‘Father, this is George Keefer, the church clerk.’ She stood aside to let him past.
Fairfax recognised him at once by his bald head with its sickle birthmark. Keefer stuck out his hand. ‘Ye found us then, Father.’
‘Evidently.’ Fairfax shook his thick damp palm.
Agnes regarded them with surprise. ‘Thee knows each other?’
‘We met on the road yesterday,’ said Fairfax.
‘I’d’ve guided thee myself,’ said Keefer, ‘but I’d wool to deliver to the mill before dark.’ From upstairs came a noise of hammering. He glanced up at the ceiling. ‘I’ve instructed the coffin should be closed. He’s lain a week since, and those as wanted to pay their respects has done so by now. Is that not right, Agnes?’
She said coldly, ‘Thou’s the clerk, George.’
Such was the effect of his baldness, Fairfax found it hard to estimate Keefer’s years. Doubtless he was younger than he looked. Middle twenties, perhaps? Whatever his age, the priest did not care for his attitude, and was of a mind to reproach him for his unfriendliness the previous day, especially given the man’s status as a clerk of the Church compared to his own as an ordained minister. He must surely have realised Fairfax was on his way to bury Father Lacy. But the muffled hammering from upstairs reminded him he had weightier matters to attend to than his dignity.
‘Well, I suppose we should settle the service, Mr Keefer.’ He consulted his notes. ‘For hymns, I have chosen “Of the Father’s Heart Begotten” and “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”. Unless Father Lacy had some special song he favoured?’
Keefer shrugged. ‘Don’t know as he did.’
‘Then it is decided. And for the lesson, the First Letter to the Corinthians: “We shall not all sleep but we shall all be changed.” It is traditional and well fit for the occasion.’
‘As ye wish.’
‘Who will read it?’
Keefer scratched his head. ‘Doubtless Lady Durston’ll be there. The Durston family takes first pew by tradition. She knew the parson well as any.’
‘Good, then ask Lady Durston. Might there be others who will wish to say a word?’
‘We’re not folk for talking much before others.’
The first reverberation of the death knell ended their conversation. If there was a more sombre sound in Christendom, Fairfax hoped never to hear it. Between each muffled toll stretched an interval lasting three or four moments, and then it came again – the call for the dead: insistent, inescapable, remorseless.
Fairfax said, ‘What time is it, Mrs Budd?’
She looked over her shoulder into the passage. ‘Three quarters past ten, Father.’
‘We had best begin. Leave me, please.’
After they had withdrawn, Fairfax opened his bag and took out his vestments. He tugged the white alb over his head and smoothed it down to his ankles. Over his shoulders he donned the green and gold chasuble. He unfolded the stole, kissed it, and draped it round his neck. The heavy embroidered material was stiff and unfamiliar. He had only been ordained the previous Michaelmas, and he felt a prickle of nerves, which he immediately suppressed. If he could not conduct a straightforward service in such a backward little spot as this, what hope was there for a career in the priesthood? He gathered together his prayer book, Bible and notes, and went into the passage.
The pall-bearers were still struggling to manoeuvre the coffin down the narrow staircase. They were having to lower it almost vertically. It banged against the walls and banisters and looked as though it might burst open at any moment and spill the old priest in a shower of sawdust down the stairs. Agnes was standing further back along the passage, her hand pressed to her mouth. Rose was behind her. Both had put on black bonnets.
Fairfax pushed past Keefer, who was attempting to supervise, and went halfway up the stairs. He took the edge of the coffin. ‘Which way is his head? The head must leave first!’ When the box was steadied – two men standing on the bottom stair to hold the rear end, two at the front – he let go and opened the door.
He prayed to God to let the Holy Spirit enter him – for it most certainly was not with him at that moment – and stepped into a blast of rain. On a count of three, the pall-bearers hoisted the coffin up on to their shoulders and swayed out after him. Keefer came next, then Rose and Agnes, who locked the door behind her, and together the little burial party made its way slowly down the garden path and weaving across the muddy lane, skirting the puddles, towards the lychgate. Fairfax could see a couple of horses tethered to hooks set into the wall; a pony and trap waited nearby, and a covered wagon with a team of mules. The bell tolled. The wind whipped his vestments like a sail. He felt as if he had been stranded by the tide and was struggling to reach the shore.
Under the lychgate they went, between the dripping stones, past the waiting mouth of the freshly dug grave towards the shelter of the porch. After a brief pause to shift the load of the coffin, they descended through the open door, down a step worn concave by centuries of use, and into the little church. His impressions were of hushed silence punctuated by an occasional cough; of coldness and a greyish gloom; of a mass of candles at the periphery of his vision; of various faint smells – wax, frankincense, wet clothes, sweat. He walked ahead of the coffin towards the altar and opened his prayer book. The congregation stood.
Centuries earlier, as part of its rejection of scientism, the Church had rooted out the heretical modernised texts of the time before the Apocalypse and had returned Christian worship to the language of the King James Bible. Its twelve thousand words formed the basis of the Authorised National Dictionary – although other words had found their way into common usage, the Biblical lexicon alone was taught in school. Thus it was English as it was meant by God to be spoken – rich and majestic and purged of all expressions that might permit even the concept of science – th
at rang around St George’s that morning, exactly as it must have done in the olden time before the Fall.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
Fairfax had a good strong voice. He was aware of heads turning to examine him as he passed. In the crepuscular light it was hard for him to make out the small print, but it did not matter. Lives were short, burials were frequent; he knew the service off by heart.
We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.
He halted at the altar step and turned. The nave was narrow, the walls dotted with niches containing images of saints – an unusually large number for so small a church. The offertory candles beneath the carved figures flickered starlike in the shadows. The pall-bearers came to a halt beside the waiting trestles, carefully set down the coffin, and bowed towards the altar. Keefer, Agnes and Rose took their places in the second pew. Keefer leaned forward respectfully to whisper in the ear of a woman seated in front of him, who nodded and began looking through her Bible.
Fairfax lifted his arms. ‘Let us pray.’
The congregation kneeled.
Lord, thou hast been our refuge: from one generation to another.
Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever the Earth and the world were made: thou art God from everlasting, and world without end.
Thou turnest man to destruction: again thou sayest, Come again, ye children of men.
For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday: seeing that is past as a watch in the night …
The Second Sleep Page 3
