Our Lady of Everything

by Susan Finlay

  Instinctively Meg put her hands up over her ears, which were most definitely not her best feature, and very slowly nodded. She knew that this was the nicest possible thing that he could have said to her, because by saying it he was also offering her the chance to pursue the career that, until now, she had always claimed she wanted; and yet she was shocked to discover that the thought of it, and of the neat practical life that would follow, actually made her whole body go limp with fear. She tried to concentrate on the piles of papers in front of her, removed her hands and said, ‘Well the thing is, I might not be here next year.’

  ‘Oh? Really? And where will you be?’

  ‘Err . . . India perhaps.’

  ‘You have family there?’

  ‘Yes. But I want to go as a tourist. I want to discover who I am.’

  ‘Or who you plan to be?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  Meg fingered the locket that hung, as always, around her neck and looked down at her shoes, which had scuffed toes. It was the first time that she had considered either India, or indeed any other alternative to her well-mapped-out career, but now that she had voiced it – this daring and poetic and romantic thing, this desire for freedom and for travel – she realised not only that she wanted it but also that she would do it.

  ‘Well in that case . . . ’ Professor Woźniak handed her a piece of paper, ‘some very minor revisions before the final hand-in.’

  ‘Oh yes, thank you.’

  ‘And then of course we’ll have to have a talk about your viva.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes we will.’

  ‘And if you do happen to change your mind then drop me a line. These things don’t come along very often you know.’ Professor Woźniak let his eyes rest, for a second time, upon what remained of her hair, or maybe her ears. ‘And Meg . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Just . . . take care.’

  Meg stood up and said goodbye, and then almost skipped out of the building, down past the rhododendron bushes that would soon burst into flame, and towards the beautiful, glittering lake and the rather quaint ice cream kiosk beside it. And all the while her mind raced with possibilities, like how many shifts at Waterstones it would take to buy a plane ticket to India, and how many to save enough to live for six months over there, which would definitely be cheaper than six months over here, where everything went on clothes that didn’t suit her . . .

  As she rounded the corner she almost collided with the same two boys that she had encountered earlier, but who were now standing up, shivering. They each held one side of a newspaper, the first two pages of which were covered in pictures of smiling English soldiers, and the ruined flesh of their prisoners lying in a pyramid beneath. The first boy pointed to it and said, ‘I can’t believe that this could happen.’ And then threw his empty coffee cup on the ground.

  Meg paused, and a second later picked it up. And then she scrunched the paper cup into a paper ball and threw it in the bin.

  Agasou/St Louis IX, King of France

  DAVE PUT DOWN THE CARDBOARD box and arranged himself on top of it. He reached inside his jacket in search of cigarettes, and then, as soon as he found them he lit up. Meg, however, continued briskly removing the rest of the boxes from the car until all of the various, useless items that he had only recently packed up and taken back to his parents’ house in West Bridgford were stacked on the pavement outside his new bedsit in Forest Fields. Then she slammed the boot shut, turned towards him and said, ‘I wish you hadn’t started smoking again. It’s like kissing an ashtray.’

  ‘Ah Meg come on—’

  ‘No you come on. Come on and help me get these boxes – I mean your boxes – inside.’

  Dave stubbed out his almost untouched cigarette and put it back inside the packet. He knew that she was annoyed, partly because he had decided not to move into one of the flats that she had suggested, or suggested that they move in together, and partly because she was nervous about handing in her thesis – although whenever he’d tried to discuss this latter anxiety she’d denied it, and then used India to try and distract him.

  Reluctantly, he picked up one of the boxes, and followed her into the building and up the first flight of stairs. As soon as he reached the top, the bottom of the box he was carrying gave way, spilling all of the books inside it out onto the landing. The door opposite him immediately opened, and a young woman in a long, embroidered cotton dress appeared and said, ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘No,’ said Meg.

  ‘Yes, yes, sorry,’ said Dave. ‘We, I mean I, was just in the process of, err, of moving in and I, err . . . ’

  The young woman bent down and gathered up The Kaosphere, Voodoo: A Beginner’s Guide, and one of the Warhammer 40,000 novels. She turned it over carefully and said, ‘So you’re into fantasy?’

  ‘Well, what I’m actually interested in is magik – with a “k” – but more specifically postmodern magik and—’

  ‘But you’ve got a book on voodoo?’

  ‘Well yes, voodoo is also an interest, but primarily in relation to syncretism as opposed to anything more, err . . . primitive.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘Primitive?’

  ‘Syncretism.’

  ‘It means combining different belief systems while blending the practices of different intellectual traditions,’ said Meg, and then began to shove the remainder of the fallen books back inside the box. ‘He’s got a blog.’

  ‘Oh really? I have a blog too. On crystal healing.’

  Dave murmured something suitably polite but non-committal, picked up the box again and continued on his way. He expected Meg to do the same, only she stayed where she was, making unnecessary small talk, until, as he reached the top of the last flight of stairs and opened the door to what was now his bedsit, he heard her laugh and say: ‘Oh don’t mind him, he’s just shy around new people,’ as if he were a child, and then in a louder voice which he assumed was mainly for his benefit, ‘but crystals are his passion. In fact, I’m sure that he’ll want to have a good long chat with you about it. You really must pop round . . . ’

  Not wanting to hear anymore, he kicked the door shut. Then he took out the same cigarette he had been forced to abandon earlier and relit it. And then, when Meg finally re-joined him, he sat down and watched, without offering to help, as she opened up one of the boxes, removing the curtains that his mother had bought for him from Habitat, followed by the cushions that Meg had bought for him from IKEA, one of which she now placed on the chair beneath the window.

  ‘It’s bad enough that you have to take the piss out of me all the time, but why do you have to involve that girl downstairs?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Ah Dave come on—’

  ‘No you come on, come—’ and then, realising that he was mimicking their earlier exchange, he stopped, stubbed out his first cigarette and lit a second.

  Meg picked up another one of the cushions, sat down upon it and wriggled closer to him. She plucked the cigarette out of his hand and took a drag, and straight away her eyes began to fill with tears, although whether this was from the smoke or something else, Dave could not be sure. So he took another drag and waited, and after a moment Meg turned to him and said, ‘Is this because I cut my hair?’

  For the first time he was genuinely taken aback. ‘No, no of course not,’ he said, quickly, and in his agitation, he let a piece of ash fall onto and burn his hand. ‘Don’t be stupid, I mean, err, silly.’

  ‘Then why did you change your mind about my parents’ puja?’

  ‘I already told you, I had to work on my blog.’

  Meg put her hands up over her ears, and in response Dave shifted uncomfortably. He knew that the blog sounded like a poor excuse, even if it was a true one, but now that he had found his own religion it wasn’t as if he needed hers, just as now that she herself had become a certainty in his life, or so he believed, it wasn’t as if he had to circle round her second-guessing what she wa
nted. Dimly he wondered if being her boyfriend meant that he should buy her flowers, or make some other traditionally romantic gesture so as to alleviate his guilt, and yet he also feared that they were both too cynical either to give or to receive such gifts affectively . . .

  ‘Do you know what my name means?’ Meg said at last, staring into the curtains.

  ‘Err, pearl maybe? Or lily? I mean a lot of women’s names tend to mean those things, or types of things and, err—’

  ‘It means cloud.’

  It was so unexpected that Dave laughed, and then, still laughing, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him, so that she was half standing, half sitting on his lap.

  ‘And do you know what that means?’ he asked, holding her tight while she gave in and shook her head against his heart. ‘It means that we live in the sky, together.’

  Erzulie Freda/Our Lady of Sorrows

  KATHY CLICKED OUT OF THE Free Ads screen and onto the Hotmail screen. She could see that Judy was headed in her direction but as there was only one more week to go until she was officially redundant, she no longer tried to disguise the fact. Instead she continued to type in her username and her password and then, to her surprise, no new or unread emails, which meant no new or unread emails from trolls or journalists flashed onto the screen. She had assumed that, by the time the story reached the proper newspapers, their number and ferocity would have increased, but in truth by the time the story had escaped the Internet they’d got bored. She cracked her knuckles, so that they made a sound like three eggs breaking, and then she clicked ‘compose’:

  Dear Jackson,

  I’ve attached a copy of my application. If you’ve time to look through it, it would be much appreciated.

  Love,

  Kathy (aka Katarzyna) X

  She pressed send, and then, before she had had time to translate what her request either might or might not mean, an answer pinged straight back:

  Dear Katar-zy-zy-zy-na!

  Yes of course. I’ve been meaning to get in touch. Are you free this weekend?

  Love

  Jackson X

  And then, without any space to think in:

  Yes. Text me the deets X

  Kathy looked up and saw Aaeesha Begum reaching for the box of Milka chocolates that Sam from Motors’ girlfriend had bought for him for work, but as soon as she saw Kathy, or so it seemed to Kathy, she looked away; and as soon as she looked away, Kathy was seized by a desperate need to have a very normal, very mundane conversation with her that would prove that nothing had changed, even though if nothing had changed then she would have avoided having any form of conversation altogether.

  Kathy jumped up and darted over to the chocolates, but by the time she reached them Aaeesha had already sat back down. She took a chocolate anyway and, as soon as she put it in her mouth, she felt the hunger, that she hadn’t even realised had been gnawing at her body, leave it – and then she took another and another and so on, each one of which tasted even better than the last.

  ‘You know there’s something different about you today Kathy,’ said Judy, coming up behind her. ‘I can’t quite put my finger on it but . . . ’

  But something buzzed inside Kathy’s pocket:

  Y don’t I pick U up at 6 on Sat? J X

  And without pausing:

  Sounds good. C U then K X

  Kathy put her phone back inside her pocket along with two more of the chocolates, smiled and said, ‘I can’t resist!’

  ‘I know, they’re very moreish aren’t they?’

  ‘Umm . . . ’

  Kathy took a final chocolate and went back to her computer, her fingers veering instinctively towards ‘compose’. She knew that Eoin had already been court martialed, and had already served half of his twenty-eight days, which meant that she knew that in another two weeks he would be inescapably hers. Yet the pride, which, until now, she didn’t even know that she possessed, had suddenly made her desperate to avoid him . . .

  Kathy looked up and saw Aaeesha heading back over towards the chocolates. She stood up again and once more darted after her. As soon as she reached them, she grabbed another handful, smiled and said, ‘I can’t resist!’

  ‘But last time someone bought chocolates in you and Meg threw them in the bin,’ said Aaeesha.

  ‘I know, but these ones, well, they’re very moreish aren’t they?’

  ‘Moreish?’

  And then, not knowing what else to do besides regret her choice of words, she stuffed a chocolate in her mouth. Aaeesha watched her while she chewed and swallowed and then said, ‘Yes I see.’

  ‘You see what?’

  ‘That you can’t resist.’

  ‘Oh, err, right,’ said Kathy, and she felt her face colouring, with heat and blood and shame.

  Baron Samedi/St Martin de Porres

  MARGARET LEANT ON BLESSINGS’ ARM for a moment, and then bent over and, rather clumsily, rubbed her knees.

  ‘Are you alright Margaret? Maybe we should stop and have a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, no I’m fine thank you Blessings. I just want to finish my shopping and go home.’

  ‘But there’s a Starbucks over there. We could—’

  ‘I said that I’m fine thank you Blessings.’ And then, as soon as Blessings bowed her head, Margaret felt mean. ‘It’s only that Eoin arrives next week. And I want everything to be just right.’

  ‘I know, but how can you take care of him if you don’t take care of yourself? Father Jonathan—’

  ‘Now that looks like just what we want,’ Margaret broke in, and then took a step towards the Waterstones opposite. ‘Come on Blessings.’

  ‘But you already have a new calendar.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a little too . . . fiery.’

  Again Blessings bowed her head, and then a moment later held out her arm, and the two women crossed the road. Margaret did not normally venture into bookshops, having had little time, since leaving school, for reading anything besides the Bible or The Post, and consequently the other shoppers, with their tote bags and baggy blazers, were not the kind that she was used to. She teetered, uncertainly, towards a table covered in notebooks, one of which had a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the cover, and underneath it the words ‘La Tour Eiffel’ embossed in gold.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what that means,’ said Margaret, tracing the letters with her finger. ‘But it certainly looks very French. And it’s only three pounds. Do you think that I should get it for Albertina?’

  ‘I am sure that she would be very pleased,’ said Blessings, and Margaret nodded, picked up the notebook and then clutched it, very tightly, against her chest.

  ‘Now let me see, the calendars . . . ’

  Yet all of the calendars were arranged on the top shelves, too high up for her, or even Blessings to reach. Margaret craned her neck and looked helplessly from side to side until a young, brown-skinned woman appeared and said, ‘Hello, can I help you?’

  ‘Oh yes thank you, err . . . ’ Margaret’s left eye moved down towards her name badge, while the right one flickered, ‘Meg. I’d like “A Dog for All Seasons”, but I think that you’ll probably need to get a man to reach it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no bother,’ said Meg.

  ‘Or just someone taller.’

  ‘I really don’t mind.’

  ‘Or someone less . . . ’

  ‘Less . . . ?’

  Margaret watched as Meg clambered up onto one of the kick stools, pulled out a copy of ‘Antique Maps 2005’ and handed it to her.

  ‘You’ve made a mistake,’ she said, very sharply. ‘I asked for “A Dog for All Seasons”.’

  ‘Oh I am sorry.’ Meg replaced ‘Antique Maps 2005’, took down ‘A Dog for All Seasons 2005’, and handed it to her. ‘Here you go.’

  Margaret watched as she jumped down off the kick stool and flicked her hair out of her eyes. Then, as soon as she had walked off out of sight, she turned to Blessings and hissed, ‘There’s a reason that people
don’t like Muslims.’

  Blessings looked shocked, and then from side to side to see if anyone else was listening. She smoothed her blouse and then, very calmly, said, ‘The first president that we elected in Malawi was a Muslim. And he was very popular. We thought that—’

  ‘You thought that there were no prospects.’

  ‘Yes, no, there aren’t but—’

  ‘But God remembers the faithful,’ said Margaret, once more feeling mean and now also desperate, and then, wishing to compensate for both these things, she reached out her hand – only instead of taking it Blessings started laughing.

  ‘In the next life, yes, but not in this one.’ And she continued to shake until the tears ran down her cheeks. ‘In this one we’re all lost.’

  ‘But Blessings!’

  ‘But it is true Margaret, very true. If Malawi was rich, then nobody there would pray.’

  Margaret stared hard at her for a moment, and then, when Blessings still continued to shake as if seized by the spirit, or the devil – these days she really couldn’t be sure – she took out her hearing aid and put it in her pocket. Then she unfolded her shopping list and stared at it instead, before striking a line through ‘calendar – flowers or animals’ and ‘thank you present for Albertina’. And then she drew a circle around ‘pyjamas’ because the pair under what was still Eoin’s pillow had worn right through and she mustn’t forget to replace them.

  Ogou Balanjo/St Joseph

  STAN EXAMINED THE EXERCISE BOOK, which was opened in the centre of the kitchen table. Each page consisted of a list of Polish words scribbled in blue biro and a truncated English translation pencilled in beside them. There was also a pile of envelopes, all of which were full of receipts, and another, closed exercise book labeled ‘cash only’ – which meant that not all of the information inside necessarily needed to be declared, unlike the other book that one way or another was a definite proof of something.

  Stan sighed, because he was already tired, and then sat down in front of the laptop that his daughter had lent him, and its screen that read, ‘Sign in and file your Self Assessment Tax Return’. Then he logged onto his account, and began to enter the figures based on the open book into one of the virtual boxes, and then the figures based on the receipts inside the envelopes into another, and then he saw that, provided the shut book stayed shut, all was as it should be. He clicked ‘submit’, and the screen in front of him morphed into another screen that read, ‘Thank you. Your Tax Return has been successfully submitted.’