Even in embittered January, the interior of Ledwardine Church kept its autumnal glow. Because of the apples.
This was an orchard village and, when the orchards were bare, Merrily would buy red and yellow apples in Hereford and scatter them around: on the pulpit, down by the font, along the deep window ledges.
The biggest and oldest apple there was clasped in the hand of Eve in the most dramatic of Ledwardine’s stained-glass windows, west-facing to pull in the sunset. Although there’d been no sun this afternoon, that old, fatal fruit was still a beacon, and its warmth was picked up by the lone Bramley cooking apple sitting plump and rosy on Minnie’s coffin.
‘Um… want to tell you about this morning,’ Merrily said. ‘How the day began for Gomer and me.’
She wasn’t in the pulpit; she was standing to one side of it, in front of the rood screen of foliate faces and carved wooden apples, viewing the congregation along the coffin’s shiny mahogany top.
‘Somehow, I never sleep well the night before a funeral. Especially if it’s someone I know as well as I’d got to know Minnie. So this morning, I was up before six, and I made a cup of tea, and then I walked out, intending to stroll around the square for a bit. To think about what I was going to say here.’
There must have been seventy or eighty people in the church, and she recognized fewer than half of them. As well as Minnie’s relatives from the Midlands, there were several farmer-looking blokes who must have known Gomer when he was digging drainage ditches along the Welsh border. You wanner know why most of them buggers’ve come yere, he’d hissed in Merrily’s ear, you watch how high they piles up their bloody plates with pie and cake in the village hall afterwards.
Now, she looked across at Gomer, sitting forlorn in the front pew, his glasses opaque, his wild white hair Brylcreemed probably as close to flat as it had ever been. Sitting next to him was Jane, looking amazingly neat and prim and solemn in her dark blue two-piece. Jane had taken the day off school, and had helped prepare the tea now laid out at the village hall.
‘It was very cold,’ Merrily said. ‘Nobody else in the village seemed to be up yet. No lights, no smoke from chimneys. I was thinking it was true what they say about it always being darkest just before the dawn. But then… as I walked past the lychgate… I became aware of a small light in the churchyard.’
She’d approached carefully, listening hard — remembering, inevitably, the words of Huw Owen, her tutor on the Deliverance course. They’ll follow you home, they’ll breathe into your phone at night, break into your vestry and tamper with your gear. Crouch in the back pews and masturbate through your sermons… Little rat-eyes in the dark.
The light glowed soft in the mist. It was down at the bottom of the churchyard, where it met the orchard, close to the spot where Merrily had planned a small memorial for Wil Williams, seventeeth-century vicar of this parish and the vicarage’s onetime resident ghost.
The light yellowed the air immediately above the open space awaiting Minnie Parry. Merrily had stopped about five yards from the grave and, as she watched, the light grew brighter.
And then there was another light, a small red firefly gleam, and she almost laughed in relief as Gomer Parry, glowing ciggy clamped between his teeth, reached up from below and dumped his hurricane lamp, with a clank, on the edge of the grave.
‘Oh, hell.’ Gomer heaved himself out. ‘Din’t disturb you, nor nothing, did I, vicar? Din’t think you could see this ole lamp from the vicarage. Din’t think you’d be up, see.’
‘I didn’t see it from the vicarage. I was… I was up anyway. Got a lot of things to do before… Got to see the bishop — stuff like that.’ She was burbling, half embarrassed.
‘Ar,’ said Gomer.
Merrily was determined not to ask what he’d been up to down there in the grave; if he was doing it under cover of darkness, it was no business of anyone else’s. Besides, he’d made himself solely responsible for Minnie’s resting place, turning up with his mini-JCB to attack the ice-hard ground, personally laying down the lining.
‘Fancy a cup of tea, Gomer?’
Gomer came over, carrying his lamp.
‘Bugger me, vicar,’ he said. ‘Catch a feller pokin’ round your churchyard at dead of night and you offers him a cup o’ tea?’
‘Listen, pal,’ Merrily said, echoing the asphalt tones of the verger of the Liverpool church where she’d served as a curate, ‘I’m a bloody Christian, me.’
Gomer grinned, a tired, white gash in the lamplight.
‘So… we went back to the vicarage.’ Merrily’s gaze was fixed on the shiny Bramley on Minnie’s coffin. ‘And there we were, Gomer and me, at six o’clock in the morning, sitting either side of the kitchen table, drinking tea. And for once I was at a bit of a loss…’
She heard light footsteps and saw a stocky figure tiptoeing up the central aisle; recognized young Eirion Lewis, in school uniform. He was looking hesitantly from side to side… looking for Jane. He must be extremely keen on the kid to drive straight from school to join her at the funeral of someone he hadn’t even known.
It was, you had to admit, a smart and subtle gesture. But Eirion had been raised to it; his old man ran Welsh Water or something. Eirion, though you wouldn’t know it from his English accent, had been raised among the Welsh-speaking Cardiff aristocracy: the crachach.
When he saw that Jane was in the front pew, a leading mourner, he quietly backed off and went to sit on his own in the northern aisle which was where, in the old days, the women had been obliged to sit — the ghetto aisle. Eirion was, in fact, a nice kid, so Jane would probably dump him in a couple of weeks.
Merrily looked up. ‘Then, after his second mug of tea, Gomer began to talk.’
‘All it was… just buryin’ a little box o’ stuff, ’fore my Min goes down there, like. So’s it’ll be underneath the big box, kind of thing. En’t no church rules against that, is there?’
‘If there are,’ Merrily had said, lighting a cigarette, ‘I can have them changed by this afternoon.’
‘Just bits o’ stuff, see. Couple o’ little wedding photos. Them white plastic earrings ’er insisted on wearing, ’cept for church. Nothing valuable — not even the watches.’
She had stared at him. He looked down at his tea, added more sugar. She noticed his wrist was bare.
‘Mine and Min’s, they both got new batteries. So’s they’d go on ticking for a year or so. Two year, mabbe.’
Don’t smile, Merrily told herself. Don’t cry. She remembered Gomer’s watch. It was years old, probably one of the first watches ever to work off a battery. And so it really did tick, loudly.
‘Dunno why I done it, really, vicar. Don’t make no sense, do it?’
‘I think, somehow…’ Merrily looked into the cigarette smoke, ‘it makes the kind of sense neither of us is clever enough to explain.’
‘And I’m not going to try too hard to explain it now,’ she said to the congregation. ‘I think people in this job can sometimes spend too long trying to explain too much.’
In the pew next to Gomer, Jane nodded firmly.
‘I mean, I could go on about those watches ticking day and night under the ground, symbolizing the life beyond death… but that’s not a great analogy when you start to think about it. In the end, it was Gomer making the point that he and Minnie had something together that can’t just be switched off by death.’
‘Way I sees it, vicar, by the time them ole watches d’stop ticking, we’ll both be over this — out the other side.’ Gomer had pushed both hands through his aggressive hair. ‘Gotter go on, see, ennit? Gotter bloody go on.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What was it like when your husband… when he died?’
‘A lot different,’ Merrily said. ‘If he hadn’t crashed his car we’d have got divorced. It was all a mistake. We were both too young — all that stuff.’
‘And we was too bloody old,’ Gomer said, ‘me and Min. Problem is, nothin’ in life’s ever quite… what’s that word? Synchronized. ’Cept for them ole watches. And you can bet one o’ them buggers is gonner run down ’fore the other.’
Gomer smoked in silence for a few moments. He’d been Minnie Seagrove’s second husband, she’d been Gomer’s second wife. She’d moved to rural Wales some years ago with Frank Seagrove, who’d retired and wanted to come out here for the fishing, but then had died, leaving her alone in a strange town. Merrily still wasn’t sure quite how Minnie and Gomer had first met.
Gomer’s mouth opened and shut a couple of times, as if there was something important he wanted to ask her but he wasn’t sure how.
‘Not seen your friend, Lol, round yere for a while,’ he said at last — which wasn’t it.
‘He’s over in Birmingham, on a course.’
‘Ar?’
‘Psychotherapy. Had to give up his flat, and then he got some money, unexpectedly, from his old record company and he’s spent it on this course. Half of him thinks he should become a full-time psychotherapist — like, what mental health needs is more ex-loonies. The other half thinks it’s all crap. But he’s doing the course, then he’s going to make a decision.’
‘Good boy,’ Gomer said.
‘Jane still insists she has hopes for Lol and me.’
Gomer nodded. Then he said quickly, ‘Dunno quite how to put this, see. I mean, it’s your job, ennit, to keep us all in hopes of the hereafter: ’E died so we could live on, kinder thing — which never made full sense to me, but I en’t too bright, see?’
Merrily put out her cigarette. Ethel, the cat, jumped onto her knees. She plunged both hands into Ethel’s black winter coat.
The big one?
‘Only, there’s gotter be times, see, vicar, when you wakes up cold in the middle of the night and you’re thinkin’ to youself, is it bloody true? Is anythin’ at all gonner happen when we gets to the end?’
From the graveside there came no audible ticking as Minnie’s coffin went in. Gomer had accepted that his nephew, Nev, should be the one to fill in the hole, on the grounds that Minnie would have been mad as hell watching Gomer getting red Herefordshire earth all over his best suit.
Walking away from the grave, he smiled wryly. He may also have wept earlier, briefly and silently; Merrily had noticed him tilt his head to the sky, his hands clasped behind his back. He was, in unexpected ways, a private person.
Down at the village hall, he nudged her, indicating several tea plates piled higher with food than you’d have thought possible without scaffolding.
‘Give ’em a funeral in the afternoon, some of them tight buggers goes without no bloody breakfast and lunch. ’Scuse me a minute, vicar, I oughter ’ave a word with Jack Preece.’ And he moved off towards a ravaged-looking old man, whose suit seemed several sizes too big for him.
Merrily nibbled at a slice of chocolate cake and eavesdropped a group of farmer-types who’d separated themselves from their wives and didn’t, for once, seem to be discussing dismal sheep prices.
‘Bloody what-d’you-call-its — pep pills, Ecstersee, wannit? Boy gets picked up by the police, see, with a pocketful o’ these bloody Ecstersee. Up in court at Llandod. Dennis says, “That’s it, boy, you stay under my roof you can change your bloody ways. We’re gonner go an’ see the bloody rector…” ’
‘OK, Mum?’
Merrily turned to find Jane holding a plate with just one small egg sandwich. Was this anorexia, or love?
‘What happened to Eirion, flower?’
‘He had to get home.’
‘Where’s he live exactly?’
‘Some gloomy, rotting mansion out near Abergavenny. It was quite nice of him to come, wasn’t it?’
‘It was incredibly nice of him. But then… he is a nice guy.’
‘Yeah.’
Merrily tilted her head. ‘Meaning he’d be more attractive if he was a bit of a rogue? Kind of dangerous?’
‘You think I’m that superficial?’
‘No, flower. Anyway, I expect he’ll be going to university next year.’
‘He wants to work in TV, as a reporter. Not — you know — Livenight.’
‘Good heavens, no.’
‘So you’re going to do that after all then?’ Jane said in that suspiciously bland voice that screamed hidden agenda.
‘I was blackmailed.’
‘Can I come?’
Merrily raised her eyes. ‘Do I look stupid?’
‘See, I thought we could take Irene. He’s into anything to do with TV, obviously. Like, he knows his dad could get him a job with BBC Wales on the old Taff network, but he wants to make his own way. Which is kind of commendable, I’d have thought.’
‘Very honourable, flower.’
‘Still, never mind.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Sure. You told that — what was her name? Tania?’
‘Not yet.’
‘She’ll be ever so pleased.’
And Jane slid away with her plate, and Merrily saw Uncle Ted, the senior churchwarden, elbowing through the farmers. He was currently trying to persuade her to levy a charge for the tea and coffee provided in the church after Sunday services. She wondered how to avoid him. She also wondered how to avoid appearing on trash television to argue with militant pagans.
‘Mrs… Watkins?’
She turned and saw a woman looking down at her — a pale, tall, stylishly dressed woman, fifty-fiveish, with expertly bleached hair. She was not carrying any food.
‘I was impressed,’ she said, ‘with your sermon.’ Her accent was educated, but had an edge. ‘It was compelling.’
‘Well, it was just…’
‘… from the heart. Meant something to people. Meant something to me, and I didn’t even know… er…’
‘Minnie Parry.’
‘Yes.’ The woman blinked twice, rapidly — a suggestion of nerves. She seemed to shake herself out of it, straightened her back with a puppet-like jerk. ‘Sister Cullen was right. You seem genuine.’
‘Oh, you’re from the hospital…’
‘Not exactly.’ The woman looked round, especially at the farmers, her eyes flicking from face to florid face, evidently making sure there was nobody she knew within listening distance. ‘Barbara Buckingham. I was at the hospital, to visit my sister. I think you saw her the other night — before I arrived. Menna Thomas… Menna…’ Her voice hardened. ‘Menna Weal.’
‘Oh, right. I did see her, but…’
‘But she was already dead.’
‘Yes, she was, I’m afraid.’
‘Mrs Watkins,’ the woman took Merrily’s arm, ‘may I talk to you?’ Not a request. ‘I rang your office, in Hereford. Sister Cullen gave me the number. She said you were probably the person to help me. The person who deals with possession.’
‘Oh.’
‘I rang your office and they said you were conducting a funeral here, so I just… came. It seemed appropriate.’ She broke off. She was attracting glances.
‘It’s a bit crowded, isn’t it?’ Merrily said. ‘Would you like-?’
‘I’ll come to the point. Would it be possible for you to conduct a funeral service for me?’
Merrily raised an eyebrow.
‘For my sister, that is. I suppose I mean a memorial service. Though actually I don’t. She should have… she should have a real funeral in church. A proper funeral.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not getting this.’
‘Because I can’t go, you see. I can’t go to the… interment.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because… it’s going to take place in that bastard’s garden.’ Her voice rose. ‘He won’t let her go. It’s all about possession, Mrs Watkins.’
‘I don’t…’ Several people were staring at them now, over their piled-up plates.
‘Possession of the dead by the living,’ explained Barbara Buckingham.
‘I think we’d better go back to the vicarage,’ Merrily said.