10. OLD PEWS FOR A FAREWELL BOX.

Father Absolom wants to take charge, but is it wise to let him?

We were standing outside the church door, an ancient wooden affair with iron studs holding it together. Father Absolom was surrounded by his “angels”, one of them leaning heavily on a zimmer frame, and Jed and Angela faced him whilst Scabby, Joanie and myself stood slightly to one side almost as if what was going on might not concern us.

“That’s decided, then,” smiled a delighted Father Absolom, “we will inter the beloved Crin into the sacred soils of Saint Beatrice’s and hold a service for him. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. He’d like that.”

“Crin wouldn’t,” I interrupted, “he had no great fondness for religion.”

“But the Lord will claim him,” laughed the Father, “he will guide him along tortuous routes until he reaches the holy garden where angels sing and everyone believes in everything...”

“Wonderful,” gasped Angela, “it’s how I’ve always seen the afterlife.”.

“Gobbledegook,” I muttered under my breath, and Jed kicked me. “Ouch!” I added.

“So where is he?” asked Father Absolom, “so that I can splash him with water from our own sweet stream, water that has been blessed by the Lord and is more holy than gin?”

“He’s in the van,” broke in Scabby, “Would you like to meet him?”

“In the flesh?” asked the Father, suddenly losing his grin and turning pale. “You mean he’s here, in the flesh, lying on your bed of sin where the sun don’t shine?”

“There’s never been any sin involved,” said Scabby, who had remained unusually silent since we had arrived at the old church. But, like me, he had a natural distrust of anything clerical, especially when it was accompanied by eccentricity, and I can’t recall meeting anyone more seemingly eccentric than Father Absolom, if that was his real name.

“Of course not!” exclaimed the unholy Father.

“Crin was a good man. He couldn’t help being an illegal,” explained Angela, defending him beyond the grave before she made plans to join the band of Absolom’s angels, which might be looked on as some sort of posthumous betrayal.

“He’s here,” announced Jed, sliding the van door open.

There was most definitely the smell of Crin in there. It was almost overpowering, and Father Absolom took at least three steps back. It was clear that he didn’t particularly like the idea of meeting a dead illegal immigrant, or maybe, like the rest of us, he had a dark resistance to sharing his space with death itself.

“Let me...” stammered Absolom, “I tell you what … angels, come with me, I think I have an appropriate box somewhere.” He smiled his scintillating smile again, leaned heavily on hos walking stick and added, “I do a bit of carpentry in my spare time. You see, in a previous life I was an undertaker and I like to keep my hand in...”

“An earlier life?” asked Scabby, frowning.

“Before the Lord claimed me as an ambassador of faith,” nodded a grinning Absolom. “It was burying so many bodies that got me to see the light, if you see what I mean...”

I didn’t, but it seemed unimportant to me. Scabby had other ideas, though.

“So how long have you been here?” he asked with assumed politeness.

“Oh, years,” stuttered the Father, if that’s really what he was, though I was beginning to have my doubts. “I fixed this place up, opened the doors to saints and sinners alike and, well, here I am. And, as I said, I keep my hand in and I do believe I’ve got a spare box… Now come on, angels!”

His three equally geriatric followers tagged on behind him as he limped back into the old church.

“What a good man,” sighed Angela, “the sort of man with the kind of belief I’ve always wanted to meet.”

“He’s a scurrilous fake if you ask me,” I growled, and Jed kicked me again.

“We need to dispose of Crin’s mortal remains before the reunion concert on Saturday, and if this man is willing to help us, so much for the good,” explained Scabby with a frown.

“Exactly,” growled Jed with a deeper frown.

“I think he’s wonderful,” sighed Angela.

“Are you in your right mind?” asked Joanie, “I mean, what with the love of your life being dead and all that… I don’t know how I’d feel if Robin Hood suddenly shot Scabs here,” and she took Scabby by one hand and squeezed his fingers none too gently.

“That hurts!” he protested, pulling his hand away and shaking it in order to restore circulation to numb fingers.

“I’d be distraught,” whispered Joanie.

“I know what I want,” murmured Angela, “And I want that man!”

“He’s got to be ninety if he’s a day,” I suggested, and Jed kicked me for a third time.

“Do you have to?” I frowned at him.

“Angela’s had one heck of a shock, so don’t get onto her,” growled Jed. “I was closest to Crin of all of us and I reckon this is exactly what he would have wanted.”

“It is,” sighed Angela, nodding her head as if to convince herself.

But when the Father reappeared with his three angels carrying a coffin-sized wooden box we all had our doubts.

“I utilised unwanted pews,” he explained, “there are still plenty left for my parishioners, though, I don’t want you to think I’ve gone against the will of the good Lord by making coffins out of the surplus. His holiness would understand, and you never know when they’ll come in handy. This one should be just the job.”

“It doesn’t look much like a coffin,” I muttered. And it didn’t. It looked lie what it was, ancient pews sawn up and nailed together with no great expertise, making a box that was only loosely the right size and shape to be called some kind of coffin.

“We played with better looking orange boxes when I was a kind,” added Scabby. “I buried a dead thrush in one once.”

“Now is not the time to raise objections,” snarled Jed.

“I think you’re awful,” whispered Joanie to him.

“Crin would have loved it,” explained Jed forcibly, “He liked anything eccentric. He said it reminded him of his homeland.”

“Everything ugly reminded him of that,” I murmured. Jed tried to kick me again but I moved my leg and he kicked Scabby instead, which was not the wisest thing for him to have done.

“Later,” growled Scabby, threatening Jed.

“Well, beloved mourners, let’s put him in his casket,” boomed a smiling Absolom, “for as much as it is in the Lord’s hand, we will commit brother Crin’s mortal remains to the sanctified soils of Saint Beatrice, where he can rest until the third trumpet sounds...”

“De-sanctified,” I whispered, and thankfully Jed didn't hear me.

“Get him out then, lads,” ordered Absolom.

“Aren’t you going to help?” demanded Scabby.

“Me? No chum, I don’t touch the dead. I just pray for them?” smiled the Father, “Now get on with it or it’ll be sunset, and we can’t bury anyone then!”

© Peter Rogerson 26.06.18

Reviews

[Great Aunt Astri]

Another enjoyable chapter. I'm so glad Crin has found a resting place .... or has he?

[Peter Rogerson]

He probably has. Though nothing's certain until I type the last full stop...

[Great Aunt Astri]

Does the story just come to you as you go along , or do you have a master plan?

[Peter Rogerson]

I'd like to say I had a master plan but in all honesty I start with barely an idea and let the events unfold themselves. In that way I quite enjoy the process, as if I was reading something for the first time, only writing it. Today I think it may be that last part ... but who knows?

[Great Aunt Astri]

I agree it is fun to write-as -you-go. Ideas seem to pop in unexpectedly. I have also found that if I did have a 'plan' it is not quite the same as originally intended. Writing is fun, and as you say it is sometimes a bit like reading something for the first time!