They had Father Wilfred laid out in his coffin in the front room of the presbytery. It was a rarely used room and almost as cold as the January day that bristled against the window behind the curtains. A carriage clock futtered quietly on the mantelpiece next to the candles that would be kept lit until the funeral. Everyone stood around the coffin as the priest said a prayer and made the sign of the cross over the body.
Because it was a body now and not Father Wilfred at all. Death was a poor draughtsman and had rendered his likeness just a little off-centre, giving him the look of someone who was almost familiar but lacking the something that made them so. Like a waxwork, I suppose.
As a crop of white stubble had spread across his cheeks and chin, his face had taken on the texture of fake velvet. The skin on his arms and legs was like ancient parchment dotted with the ink of moles and liver spots, and beneath the skin lay stringy muscles that had been loosened by the funeral director to make the cleaning easier.
Mummer brought in basins of warm water and a bottle of Dettol and the ladies rolled up their sleeves and slowly opened the folds of linen and began to wash him, gently lifting his arms and turning his legs slightly to get around the backs of his knees. A swirl of a loincloth afforded him some modesty and spared our blushes.
I stood back and held a basin for Mummer. I noticed that there was a brown stain on the satin pillow as she cradled Father Wilfred’s head so that she could run a flannel around his face and neck. Water and disinfectant trickled over the hard bow of his clavicle and down the grill of his ribs and when Mummer mopped his brow there remained little droplets among his eyelashes.
When it was done and the ladies were going in and out to sluice the water down the drains, Mummer opened up the newspaper parcel she had brought with her and took out a small bunch of white roses. She crossed Father Wilfred’s shrivelled hands over his stomach and interlaced the fingers. Then, careful not to cut him, she lifted his hands and slotted the roses into his grasp one by one.
As they swaddled him again, there was an audible exhalation. Of pity, I thought, or relief. Relief that it was over. Relief that it wasn’t them lying there on the table like meat.
Mummer crossed herself and then sat down on a wooden chair by the coffin with her rosary beads to take the first watch of the vigil. The other ladies said nothing and left one by one.
‘Light the candles before you go,’ said Mummer as I was putting on my coat.
I did as she asked and watched the light flickering on Father Wilfred’s face.
‘Is Father in heaven?’ I asked.
Mummer looked up and frowned. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t he be? All priests go straight to heaven.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s their reward for serving God.’
She looked at me a moment longer then went back to her rosary. I knew when Mummer was only half sure about something — like when I came home with algebra homework and Farther wasn’t around, or she had to drive somewhere she hadn’t been before, the confidence she feigned was tinged with irritation that she didn’t actually know the right answer or the right way at all.
As I cycled home in the snow I tried to imagine what Purgatory was like. Father Wilfred had always described it as a place of closed doors, where sinners were shut off from God until their souls had been cleansed with fire.
What it felt like to have one’s soul burnt to purity, I couldn’t imagine. It couldn’t be a physical pain now that his body was lying lifeless in a box, so was it then a mental torture? Were each of life’s hidden sins illuminated and ignited one by one? Was one punished by being forced to live through them all again? All the fear and guilt?
Coming down Ballards Lane past the tube station, I surprised myself and prayed for him. After all, it wasn’t his fault. He’d had a shock at The Loney. It was no wonder he went pieces. Anyone would have done the same.
***
‘Andrew,’ said Mummer, touching him on the cheek with the back of her hand.
Hanny woke up and looked at her, then coming to consciousness he moved away from her on his elbows. He looked at me and Mummer put her hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s alright, Andrew,’ she said. ‘I’ve just brought you some tea.’
She passed Hanny the cup and he held it like a bowl and sipped.
‘That’s it,’ said Mummer, standing up slightly so that she could check that its contents had all gone. When Hanny had drunk the lot, she put her hand on the back of his neck and kissed him on the forehead. Hanny beamed because she wasn’t angry anymore.
‘Now,’ said Mummer. ‘Come and kneel down here with me.’
She got off the bed and knelt down beside it.
‘Come on, Andrew. Like this.’
He smiled and got down on the floor with Mummer.
‘Close your eyes,’ she said.
Hanny looked at me and I rubbed my fingers over my eyelids and then he understood.
‘That’s it,’ said Mummer. ‘Good lad.’
She stroked his hair and once he was settled, she turned to me.
‘Open the door,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Open the door and let them in.’
‘Who?’
‘The others.’
I got out of bed and went to the door. Farther and Mr and Mrs Belderboss were waiting on the landing. They all turned to face me.
‘Is he ready?’ asked Mr Belderboss and as quietly as possible, they filed into the bedroom and stood looking at Hanny who had his hands pressed tightly together and his eyes squeezed shut.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for Father Bernard?’ said Mrs Belderboss.
‘We’d better start,’ said Mummer. ‘While Andrew’s still settled.’
Mrs Belderboss looked at him. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she said.
‘You too,’ Mummer said to me and pointed to the patch of floor to her right where she wanted me to kneel.
Farther and Mrs Belderboss knelt on the other side of the bed and Mr Belderboss lolloped over to the chair by the door and sat down heavily, his stick in between his legs and his forehead resting on the handle.
‘Lord God,’ Mummer began. ‘We ask that your healing waters flow through Andrew and bring nourishment to his …’
She broke off as someone else came into the room. Father Bernard stood there in his coat and looked around at everyone. Mrs Belderboss pretended to inspect her fingers. Mr Belderboss smiled at him and then coughed and looked away.
‘I thought I heard voices,’ said Father Bernard. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re praying for Andrew,’ said Mrs Belderboss.
‘Oh,’ said Father Bernard, looking at his wristwatch.
‘Is that a problem, Father?’ said Mummer.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’m just surprised you’re all still up.’
‘Did Joan and David get off alright?’ asked Mrs Belderboss.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘They caught the train on time. I did try to talk them out of it again on the way there, but they had their minds made up pretty tight about it. It’s a shame.’
‘It is,’ said Mrs Belderboss, and there was a moment’s silence before Farther spoke.
‘Do you want to join us?’ he said.
Father Bernard looked at Mummer.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Come on, Father,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘I’m sure your prayers would be worth ten of ours.’
He looked down at what he was wearing. Sodden raincoat. Sodden boots.
‘I’m not sure I’m suitable, Reg,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘God doesn’t mind what you’re wearing, so why should we?’
‘No, really,’ he said. ‘I’ll be away to my bed and pray for Andrew first thing in the morning when I’m more awake and I can concentrate on what I’m doing.’