‘No, I’ve got faith in women priests, which is not much at all to do with them being priests.’
‘What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?’
Cullen put her hands on her narrow hips. ‘Well, y’are here, love, so where’s the point in debating that one?’
The corridor had cracked walls and dim economy lighting.
‘I’d be truly happy about leaving this dump behind,’ Cullen said, ‘if I didn’t feel sure the bloody suits were building us a whole new nightmare.’
‘What’s his name, this bloke?’
‘Mr Weal.’
‘First name?’
‘We don’t know. He’s not a man who’s particularly forthcoming.’
‘Terrific. He seen Paul Hutton?’ The hospital chaplain.
‘Maybe.’ Cullen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But you’re on the spot and he isn’t. What I thought was... you could perhaps say a prayer or two. He’s Welsh, by the way.’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’
‘Well, he might be Chapel or something. They’ve got their own ways. You’ll need to play it by ear on that.’
‘You mean in case he refuses to speak to me in English?’
‘Not Welsh like that. He’s from Radnorshire. About half a mile over the border, if that.’
‘Gosh. Almost normal, then.’
‘Hmm.’ Cullen smiled. Merrily followed her into a better lit area with compact, four-bed wards on either side, mainly elderly women in them. A small boy shuffled in a doorway, looking bored and aggressively crunching crisps.
‘So what’s the matter with Mrs Weal?’
‘Stroke.’
‘Bad one?’
‘You might say that. Oh, and when you’ve said a wee prayer with him you could take him for a coffee.’
‘Eileen—’
‘It’s surely the Christian thing to do,’ Cullen said lightly.
They came to the end of the passage, where there was a closed door on their right. Cullen pushed it open and stepped back. She didn’t come in with Merrily.
She was out of there fast, pulling the door shut behind her. She leaned against the partition wall. Her lips made the words, nothing audible came out.
She’s dead.
Cullen shrugged. ‘Seen one before, have you not?’
‘You could’ve explained.’
‘Could’ve sworn I did. Sorry.’
‘And the rest of it?’
‘Ah.’
‘Quite.’ What she’d seen replayed itself in blurred images, like a robbery captured on a security video: the bedclothes turned down, the white cotton nightdress slipped from the shoulders of the corpse. The man beside the bed, leaning over his wife – heavy like a bear, some ungainly predator. He hadn’t turned around as Merrily entered, nor when she backed out.
She moved quickly to shake off the shock, pulling Eileen Cullen a few yards down the passage. ‘What in God’s name was he doing?’
‘Ah, well,’ Cullen said. ‘Would he have been cleaning her up, now?’
‘On account of the NHS can’t afford to pay people to take care of that sort of thing any more?’
Cullen tutted on seeing a tea trolley abandoned in the middle of the corridor.
‘Yes?’ Merrily said.
Cullen pushed the trolley tidily against a wall.
‘There now,’ she said. ‘Well, the situation, Merrily, is that he’s been doing that kind of thing for her ever since she came in, three days ago. Wouldn’t let anyone else attend to her if he was around – and he’s been around most of the time. He asks for a bowl and a cloth and he washes her. Very tenderly. Reverently, you might say.’
‘I saw.’
‘And then he’ll wash himself: his face, his hands, in the same water. It looked awful touching at first. He’d also insist on trying to feed her, when it was still thought she might eat. And he’d be feeding himself the same food, like you do with babies, to encourage her.’
‘How long’s she been dead?’
‘Half an hour, give or take. She was a bit young for a stroke, plainly, and he naturally couldn’t come to terms with that. At his age, he was probably convinced she’d outlive him by a fair margin. But there you go: overattentive, overpossessive, what you will. And now maybe he can’t accept she’s actually dead.’
‘I dunno. It looked... ritualistic almost, like an act of worship. Or did I imagine that?’ Merrily instinctively felt in her bag for her cigarettes before remembering where she was. ‘Eileen, what do you want to happen here?’
Cullen folded her arms. ‘Well, on the practical side...’
‘Which is all you’re concerned about, naturally.’
‘Absolutely. On the practical side, goes without saying we need the bed. So we need to get her down to the mortuary soon, and that means persuading your man out of there first. He’d stay with her all night, if we let him. The other night an auxiliary came in and found him lying right there on the floor beside the bed, fast asleep in his overcoat, for heaven’s sake.’
‘God.’ Merrily pushed her hands deep down into the pockets of Jane’s duffel. ‘To be loved like that.’ Not altogether sure what she meant.
Cullen sniffed. ‘So you’ll go back in and talk to him? Mumble a wee prayer or two? Apply a touch of Christian tenderness? And then – employing the tact and humanity for which you’re renowned, and which we’re not gonna have time for – just get him the fock out of there, yeah?’
‘I don’t know. If it’s all helping him deal with his grief...’
‘You’re wimping out, right? Fair enough, no problem.’
Merrily put down her bag on the trolley. ‘Just keep an eye on that.’
Well, she didn’t know too much about rigor mortis, but she thought that soon it wouldn’t be very easy to do what was so obviously needed.
‘We should close her eyes,’ Merrily said, ‘don’t you think?’
She put out a hesitant hand towards Mrs Weal, thumb and forefinger spread. The times she’d done this before were always in the moments right after death, when there was still that light-smoke sense of a departing spirit. But, oh God, what if the woman’s eyelids were frozen fast?
‘You will,’ Mr Weal said slowly, ‘leave her alone.’
Merrily froze. He was standing sentry-stiff. A very big man in every physical sense. His face was broad, and he had a ridged Roman nose and big cheeks, reddened by broken veins – a farmer’s face. His greying hair was strong and pushed back stiffly.
Without looking at her, he said, ‘What is your purpose in being here, madam?’
‘My name’s Merrily.’ She let her hand fall to her side. ‘I’m the... vicar of Ledwardine.’
‘So?’
‘I was just... I happened to be in the building, and the ward sister asked me to look in. She thought you might like to... talk.’
Could be a stupid thing to say. If there ever was a man who didn’t like to talk, this was possibly him. Between them, his wife’s eyes gazed nowhere, not even into the beyond. They were filmed over, colourless as the water in the metal bowl on the bedside table, and they seemed the stillest part of her. He’d pulled the bedclothes back up, so that only her face was on show. She looked young enough to be his daughter. She had light brown hair, and she was pretty. Merrily imagined him out on his tractor, thinking of her waiting for him at home. Wife number two, probably, a prize.
‘Mr Weal – look, I’m sorry I don’t know your first name...’
His eyes were downcast to the body. He wore a green suit of hairy, heavy tweed. ‘Mister,’ he said quietly.
‘Oh.’ She stepped away from the bed. ‘Right. Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you... any further.’