***
We sat down at the dinner table as soon as we got back. If nothing else was going to go right, Mummer at least wanted to eat on time.
Clement had been persuaded to take off his filthy jacket and hang it up by the front door so the smell was at least confined to the hallway. Underneath, he wore a bulging tanktop of red, black and orange chevrons, a khaki shirt and tie that seemed to be strangling him.
Outside, the day had turned overcast and rain was starting to set in again. The room became gloomy enough for candles, which Father Bernard lit one by one.
Mummer, Miss Bunce and Mrs Belderboss came in and out with trays of steaming meat and vegetables, a loaf of bread, sauces in silver boats. A warm plate was set in front of each person and once everyone was sitting down, Father Bernard invited Clement to say grace, not noticing, or wilfully ignoring, the look of horror that Mummer tried to slide discreetly his way, as though on a folded piece of paper.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Clement said, ‘Lord, we humbly thank thee for the food thou hast set before us and ask that thou bestow on us thy blessing on this glorious day. Amen.’
There was complete silence as everyone looked at him. It was the most he had ever said in one go.
‘Thank you,’ said Father Bernard and Clement nodded and dug his fork into the mound of potatoes.
Everyone watched as he shovelled the food into his mouth and slopped gravy down his tie. Hanny was especially fascinated by him and barely touched his own food for watching Clement eating his.
‘How are things on the farm?’ Father Bernard asked. ‘It must be a busy time of year for you.’
Clement looked up briefly and then went back to his potatoes.
‘Not too good, Father.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘We’re going to have to sell up.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Father Bernard. ‘What’s happened?’
Clement looked around the table again and said nothing. Mr Belderboss tried a different tack.
‘We were all wondering, Clement, if your mother had had an operation or something.’
‘Eh?’
‘Well she came with firewood the other day.’
‘Oh, aye,’ he said. ‘Aye, she’s had an operation.’
‘And now she can see alright?’ said Mrs Belderboss.
‘Aye.’
‘It’s amazing what they can do nowadays isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Aye,’ said Clement, without looking up from his plate. ‘It is.’
The dishes were cleared away and Mummer brought out the simnel cake she had made the day before with its sugar paste face of Jesus in the middle and its twelve marzipan balls around the edge representing the disciples.
She placed the cake in the centre of the table and everyone, apart from Miss Bunce, made a fuss over it, praising the detail on Jesus’ face, how intricate the thorns were, how the cochineal colouring had made the blood trickling down his cheek so vibrantly red. Hanny picked up the cake slice, but Mummer took it gently from him and went back into the kitchen, returning with a fistful of leaves left over from Palm Sunday.
‘It seemed fitting,’ she said.
Everyone drew one from her hand. Clement was last and looked around the table before taking one for himself.
‘Now,’ said Mummer, ‘let’s see.’ And everyone placed their leaves down on the table.
Clement had drawn the shortest.
‘What does that mean?’ he said.
‘It means,’ said Mummer, trying to hide her disappointment that he of all people had won. ‘That you get to throw Judas on the fire.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Choose one of the balls on the cake,’ said Farther, leaning towards him. ‘And toss it into the fire.’
Clement looked at the cake and then at the fire churning in the grate.
‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘Someone else can do it.’
‘But you’ve won,’ said Mrs Belderboss.
‘Aye,’ said Clement. ‘But I’d rather not.’
‘It’s only a bit of fun,’ Father Bernard said.
‘Go on, son,’ said Mr Belderboss, plucking one of the marzipan balls from the cake and handing it to him.
Clement looked at the thing in his hand and then, holding it as though it were a delicate glass marble, he edged his chair back across the stone floor, stood up and went over to the fire. He glanced back at the table and then tipped his hand and sent Judas into the flames. Everyone clapped and for the first time Clement managed a smile. Albeit a self-conscious one that made him run his finger round the inside of his collar.
‘What was that?’ Miss Bunce said through the applause. She half stood up, holding onto the table. The clapping died away and we sat in silence listening to the rain pummelling the yard outside.
‘What’s the matter, dear?’ Mrs Belderboss said.
‘Shh,’ said Miss Bunce.
A screeching noise came from outside.
Hanny gripped my hand under the table. Everyone turned to look at the window. But there was nothing to see, only the rain beating down.
‘Owls,’ said Mr Belderboss, picking up the cake slice and handing it to Mummer. ‘I’ll just have a small piece.’
‘No, no, it’s not,’ said Miss Bunce.
‘It was owls,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘Barn owls, if I know anything.’
The noise came again, closer this time. The shriek of something in agony.
‘You might be right, Reg,’ said Farther. ‘It certainly sounded like a barn owl.’
Everyone apart from Clement got up and crowded at the window as we heard the sound of barking. In the field beyond the yard, a small white dog was edging backwards, dragging something in its mouth.
‘Isn’t that your friend’s dog, Father?’ said Mrs Belderboss.
‘Which friend is that?’
‘Your pal who helped fix the minibus.’
‘I wouldn’t call him a pal, Mrs Belderboss.’
‘Heavens. What is it doing?’ Mummer said.
‘Has it caught a bird, Father?’ said Mrs Belderboss.
‘It’s certainly got its teeth into something,’ said Father Bernard.
‘I told you. It’ll have got a barn owl,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘They screech like stink when there are dogs about.’
‘Don’t be silly, Reg,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘How on earth could a dog catch an owl?’
‘It’s not an owl,’ said Miss Bunce indignantly. ‘It’s much bigger than that.’
‘What is it?’ Mummer said again.
Far away someone whistled and the dog looked up and after a moment shot off across the grass, leaving whatever it had been chewing to die in the middle of the field.
Monro was pining to be let out, lifting himself up and pawing at the door.
‘Hey, hey,’ Father Bernard went over and tried to calm him down.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ said Mrs Belderboss.
Father Bernard struggled to get hold of Monro’s collar.
‘It’ll be the dog outside,’ he said. ‘He’s not good with other dogs.’
‘Oh, get him to stop that awful noise, Father,’ said Mrs Belderboss.
Clement was looking anxiously from one person to another.
‘Come on, you silly wee beggar,’ Father Bernard said gently and put his arms around Monro’s neck.
But Monro was still as white-eyed as Clement and jumped out of his grasp and knocked over the small table next to the door on which Mr Belderboss had left the earthenware jar.
It smashed on the floor and its contents spilled everywhere. A few small bones. A piece of leather cut into a crude heart shape. Iron nails pickled with rust. And there was the missing Christ from the nativity set stained the colour of malt whisky.
‘Oh, my Lord,’ said Mrs Belderboss as her feet were soaked. ‘What on earth have you done, you great lump?’
‘That smell,’ said Mummer, covering her nose with her hand. ‘I think your dog’s been.’