Last of the Line

by John MacKay

  The hearse drove on past the house and out of sight again to find a suitable place to turn, a difficult manoeuvre on such a narrow road.

  He went downstairs. Emma shyly offered him a cup of tea and Colin sat at the table drinking his, ignoring him with attitude. Cal carried his cup out of the back door.

  The rain had passed for the moment, leaving a glistening landscape. The road, the metal fences, the grass and even the lochs looked refreshed in the weak sunlight. But more dark clouds were massing over the sea.

  Clouds always seemed to be at the mercy of the wind, the small white puffs of a summer’s day, the thin grey cover of a dull one, even the rolling mists. All propelled and shifted by the wind. Not these black clouds. They were their own masters, a threatening mass. To see that oncoming power in such an unbroken vista was intimidating indeed.

  Approaching storms had scared Cal as boy. Even as a man, such natural forces made him conscious of his insignificance and helplessness.

  The hearse reappeared and pulled to a halt outside the gate. The perspective from Cal’s position at the front of the house was that its sombre cargo was right beneath the oncoming cloud mass. And now it wasn’t just his insignificance that troubled him, but his mortality too.

  Could it be that he was no longer alone? If he was wrong about Mary, and his mind was slowly working its way to that conclusion, then there must be another of his blood. The question that he needed to answer now was, who?

  20

  CAL CRIED AGAIN when he saw Mary for the last time. The coffin was placed in an ante-room in the church and the lid removed for those who wished to say a final farewell. It is a comfort for the living to say that the dead are simply sleeping in everlasting repose, only their eyes closed and their heart stilled. Cal had learned the myth of this from the death of his parents, but it still unsettled him to see Mary now.

  In her last hours the fullness of her face had been lost to the ravages of her illness. In death it had settled and flattened, her jawline subsiding into her neck. And she was so cold, cold like marble. Something vital was gone, the essence of what had made her who she was. The faithful believed it was the soul that had departed the shell of the body. Mary herself would have said so. Cal found himself inclined towards the more prosaic explanation that science provided. He had never been one to dwell on such fundamental questions. Until now.

  Those who came to see her were believers. The confusing dichotomy was, what exactly were they paying tribute to? If their belief was that these were the earthly remains of the woman they had known and the spirit had flown unto eternal salvation, why pay respect to the discarded husk?

  Cal sat on a chair beside Mairi just inside the door of the room and watched as they filed through in ones and twos. Some touched her head or hand, others looked upon her in silence, a few muttered a prayer through their tears. As he watched Cal concluded that it was not a spiritual ritual, but an altogether more earthy want, the simple need to delay saying that last goodbye to a dear friend.

  For Cal the final moment was a last look at a woman of good heart and hidden sorrow, a constant light in his life, now extinguished. Mairi became very upset and leaned over the corpse and kissed the forehead, the tears running down to the tip of her nose and quivering over the dead face as if it might drop in a desperate bid to restore life. The two of them embraced until Mairi’s wave of sorrow receded.

  The minister hovered in the corridor outside and when he heard Cal whisper words of comfort, he entered the room.

  ‘Perhaps, if you’re ready, we will start the service,’ he suggested quietly.

  Cal led Mairi by the hand into the main church hall.

  He immediately saw that most people had not gone to see Mary’s body. The front pews were filled and, although the numbers thinned towards the back of the church, there was not a bench that was empty. It was striking how many of the mourners were young. As they made their way down to the front of the church, Mairi nodded gestures of acknowledgement to familiar faces. The very front pew had been reserved for them as the closest relatives.

  Mairi had been reluctant to take such a prominent position. ‘I don’t know that I should be there,’ she had protested. But Cal had told her he needed her beside him. ‘All these people will be wondering who I am.’

  ‘They’ll know who you are, don’t worry about that.’

  But she had been persuaded. Colin and Emma, whom Mairi had insisted should not see the remains, were already seated waiting for them.

  As the coffin was carried to the front of the church by the undertakers, the only sound was their shoes creaking at every slow step. This could be the only time Mary had been walked down the aisle, Cal thought. Another pang of sadness brushed his heart.

  The undertakers bowed in respect and retreated. It was so quiet that Cal felt as if he could hear the air move. It was disturbed only by the occasional sniff of restrained tears or a cough.

  The coffin sat right in front of Cal on a wooden trestle. It was of traditional, solid dark oak with a tiered lid and brass handles. A wreath of red roses, carnations and orchids set among green foliage sat on top. That had been his sole contribution. The rest had been organised by Mary herself in anticipation of what was to come. The whole effect, from the church to the coffin was one of honest simplicity, with nothing ostentatious. It was in keeping with the woman herself.

  After some minutes, a door opened and the chief elder and the minister emerged. The elder, dressed in a black three-piece suit, climbed the four steps into the pulpit and placed a large, leather-bound Bible on the pedestal, opening it at pages marked by a satin bookmark that bore the image of the burning bush.

  The minister waited for him to leave the pulpit and then entered it himself. He seemed somehow different, to the man Cal had met only two nights before. Perhaps it was the black jacket and the grey trousers with black pin stripes, and the black vest with the stark white collar that gave him a more authoritarian appearance.

  He looked down at the coffin before casting his eyes around the congregation. Then his hand dropped to his lapel and his thumb clicked on a microphone.

  ‘Let us all sing to the Lord’s praise in Psalm Forty,’ he pronounced.

  The words, written millennia before by a king in praise of the Almighty, rose in humble song as the precentor led the congregation, his every note seemingly with its own grace note. The congregation joined in after the first few words, their voices swelling to fill the void where musical instruments might be expected. Each individual voice had its own inflexion and flourish, but together they produced a soulful song that would be recognisable in the plains of Africa and the plantations of the American South. It was a root sound of humanity, the same now as ever it had been.

  As the voices fell around him to staggered silence, Cal felt the goosebumps rise on his skin. It was easy, in the need to be cool and the dash to be stylish, to leave behind that which was truly lasting. His world only ever crossed that of his parents on ritual occasions like this, and always he was reminded why some traditions endured. He recognised how important the rites of death were for the living. Not for the dead. The viewing of the remains, the religious service and the formal burial were for those who lived on. Over and over these same ceremonies were repeated and all of it to bring comfort to the living.

  After the singing, they stood in lengthy prayer. For the sermon, the minister took as his text John Chapter 6, verse 37 and talked of how those who came to Jesus would never be turned away. It was an uplifting message of hope and redemption.

  There was no eulogising. The emphasis of the Presbyterian funeral service was on the message, not the person. Cal recalled how not so long before, even the name of the dead would not be mentioned and how cold and harsh that could be. It was a welcome comfort to hear Mary’s name spoken with warm regard.

  During the final psalm, the undertakers returned and lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and carried it again to the back of the church. It was a solemn moment, the beginning of t
he very end. For those not going to the cemetery, and that included most of the older women, this was the valediction.

  Cal and Mairi were the first to follow behind the minister, unconsciously pacing their steps in time with the singing. The wind gusted through the open door of the church bringing animation to the stillness within. The petals of the flowers on the coffin fluttered and the pages of the visitors’ psalm books at the door rustled. For the moment, though, the clouds held their rain.

  ‘This you’ll need to do on your own,’ said Mairi, leaving him standing just inside the door.

  The congregation filed out slowly, each one shaking his hand. One or two gripped tightly and looked intently at him as they spoke their words of homage. He mumbled the same thanks to each of them.

  The coffin was resting upon a bier. After everyone had left the church, a line formed behind it and when the undertaker saw that all was ready, he gave the signal for the hearse to move off. The men took turns in carrying the wooden beams that supported the coffin and in this way Mary MacCarl made her last journey through the village that she had known so well. Beyond the village boundary the coffin was loaded into the hearse and Cal took his place in the chief mourner’s car for the few miles to the cemetery. Mairi was already waiting inside, as he had asked her to do. In times before, they would have had to sail on an open boat to the old cemetery.

  The Atlantic sighed as the coffin was carried to the open grave, followed by the mourners, predominately male, but with some women among them. The older women, in keeping with tradition, chose not to be at the graveside.

  The head undertaker distributed cards to those who had been designated as cord holders, each with the printed outline of a coffin and numbered positions marked around it. Typically, card holders would be family members, but Cal was the only family Mary had. Or at least, as he acknowledged silently, the only one who was known.

  Finlay stood mournfully studying his card. He looked uncomfortable in his collar and black tie, his hair struggling with the wind. Gone was the bombast of their confrontation. He looked a lonely man.

  The minister approached Cal and explained that Mary had requested the graveside prayer be in Gaelic. He then gathered everyone around the grave. The coffin sat over it on two wooden supports. Mary’s mother tongue was an ancient language that some claimed had been spoken in the Garden of Eden. The sounds were familiar to Cal, and although their precise meaning was lost to him, the message was understandable enough, a plea for God’s mercy on the soul now passing into eternity.

  It was a bleak, sorrowful scene, although perhaps without wrenching sadness. There was an acceptance of the inevitable and thankfulness that Mary’s passing freed her from pain.

  The minister finished and then called on the card holders to take their positions. Cal stood at the head of the coffin and watched as another five figures came forward and were handed purple cords, which were tied to the brass handles of the coffin. To Cal’s surprise, they included young Colin.

  He didn’t know the other three. One of them was of a similar age to Mary. He looked lost and forlorn in his grey Harris Tweed coat. Was he the one who had proposed to her in vain, all those years before? There was another older man wearing an ill-fitting suit with a jumper underneath, Finlay and a smartly-dressed man about his own age.

  On the instruction of the head undertaker, the mourners gripped the cords and took the weight of the coffin. The supporting wooden slats were withdrawn and the coffin lowered slowly into its final resting place, scraping the sandy soil from the sides of the grave as it sank below the surface, away from the wind and the oncoming rain, the sounds of the ocean and the world of the living.

  The men threw the cords onto the coffin and the minister prayed again. Then, at his gesture, Cal took a handful of soil from the heap at the graveside and cast it onto the coffin. He had done his duty by her.

  Others followed, repeating the symbolic gesture. Finlay lingered longer than most. And Cal watched as Mairi too stood crying.

  They departed slowly, despite the rain now weeping down, moving in small groups towards the gate of the cemetery.

  Before the morning was gone, the grave would be filled in and Mary would be but a memory.

  21

  IN THE COMFORT of the car going back to the village, thoughts swept Cal’s mind almost in time with the sweep of the rain outside. Reminisces of his aunt, of the things that made her unique in his memory. Consideration, too, of the mystery she had left behind. Mairi sat beside him, but little was said beyond her simple observation that, ‘It’s how she wanted it to be.’

  The convoy swung into the car park of the hotel with a scrunch of tyres on stone. One woman, still wearing her hat from church, ran in to announce their arrival, although they could hardly have been missed. Everyone was wanting to do their bit.

  Cal walked with Mairi into the hotel.

  ‘Oh Calum,’ said the woman who’d been stationed at the door, ‘You get that coat off you. You must be soaked.’

  He took no offence at being fussed over. It was part of what it had been like when he was at Mary’s.

  ‘It was a lovely service by the minister,’ the woman continued. ‘She would have enjoyed it herself.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ he answered softly, smiling at the unconscious humour of the comment.

  ‘Well, come away in. The girls have got the food ready.’

  A number of tables were lined together along one wall of the small dining room, draped with white linen cloths, which gave the effect of one long table. Ranged across it were plates of food, far too much food. Cal was glad to see that some of the sandwiches were made of the thick-sliced, black-crusted bread baked on the island. Otherwise, the sausage rolls, quiche and Chinese chicken were indistinguishable from the fare at so many buffet meals. He noticed there was soup too, broth. The bread and the broth would do him fine.

  He joined the line filing past the food and then made his way to the table. Mairi took a place beside him, the minister sat on the other side.

  After saying grace they ate. The sombre silence was gone as people chatted, and even laughed at some recalled incident.

  ‘So what are your plans now, Calum?’ asked the minister conversationally.

  The question made Cal think. On his journey north the plan had been very simple, to sell the house and take the money. So much had changed these past few days and the thought of the money had barely entered his mind. He had become consumed by Mary’s past and his own.

  ‘I need to go back to the city first of all. Then I’ll have time to think things through.’

  ‘It must have come as a shock, as it did to us all.’

  ‘I’d no idea. She never said.’

  ‘I suppose she thought there was nothing you could do, so why upset you?’

  The minister’s open face and sympathetic manner encouraged Cal to talk.

  ‘Perhaps, but there are things I would’ve like to have known. Questions I wanted to ask.’

  ‘Lucky are the ones who can pass to the Lord leaving nothing unanswered behind them. There are always questions, but only of detail. She knew you loved her and when all is said and done, that’s what’s important.’

  A person sitting on the other side drew the minister’s attention away.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Mairi.

  ‘I suppose so,’ accepted Cal. ‘But I think she wanted me to know. That’s why she had you call me. She wanted to tell me and it needed to be done face to face. But it was too late.’

  A figure approached from across the room, casting a shadow as he reached them. It was Finlay. Even when he tried to speak quietly, his voice was loud. Cal’s gaze was drawn by the red weal forming where the buttoned shirt collar was rubbing Finlay’s neck.

  ‘I know now is not the time,’ he began, ‘but before you go I want you to remember what I said.’

  ‘Oh, Finlay!’ admonished Mairi.

  ‘You’re right, it’s not the time,’ said Cal emboldened by Mair
i’s presence. ‘I wasn’t likely to forget what you said and I won’t. Nothing’s decided. It won’t be for a while.’

  Finlay glared at him and then strode to the door, collected his coat and went out into the rain.

  ‘What is it with that man?’

  ‘He’s lacking in social graces, I know,’ said Mairi in a placatory tone. ‘He doesn’t know how to deal with people. He just wanted to speak to you because he doesn’t know if he’ll see you again. He’ll be walking in that road now and glad to be away from all of this. He’s so used to his own company that he prefers it that way, but he’s lonely at the same time.’

  ‘You’re always defensive of him.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything bad about Finlay, it’s just that the world has passed him by. Mary wouldn’t hear a word against him. She was his real protector.’

  Finlay’s departure was a prompt to others to leave. They had come to honour the passing of one of their own and they had done so. Much of the food remained. It was always the way.

  Mairi suggested that he should leave his place at the table and make himself available for people to say goodbye. One woman came towards him. It had been warm enough for her to take off her coat, but her hat remained a fixture on her head.

  ‘Well, the two of you look very handsome together,’ she smiled.

  ‘Oh, Mabel,’ Mairi rebuked her.

  In mock conspiracy, Mabel took Cal by the arm and turned him away from Mairi, but spoke loudly enough for her to hear.

  ‘She’s a good woman and she needs a man. She’s been long enough on her own. You like her, I can tell.’

  Cal laughed with embarrassment, but couldn’t think of a riposte. He was acutely conscious that his face was bright red.

  Mabel released him and turned to Mairi.

  ‘A handsome man like that. You shouldn’t let him go.’

  ‘Oh Mabel, eesht!’

  They continued the gentle banter and Cal saw how tactile they were, touching each other’s arms before Mabel bustled off to get her coat.