Nadege stood up to her ankles in the lake. Mosquitoes buzzed over the bright surface. If she looked closely at her toes she could see that the glistening waters were teeming with minute wriggling creatures. She lazily stirred the water with one foot. A dark cloud billowed from the muddy bottom and swallowed the creatures in its gloom. Her feet were sore after the two-kilometre walk from the village. Other children were paddling too, the older ones standing in deeper water and the small ones splashing at the edges. The sun blazed white hot, the sky shimmering like a blue cloth covering the earth. She bent to fill her battered water container, the pale brown liquid visible through the opaque plastic. When it was a quarter full and not too heavy, she lifted it to her lips and drank. It tasted of the hot earth and decaying leaves. It tasted of Africa.
Chapter 1
Father Anthony pulled his scarf across his chest and puffed white vapour into the darkness. It was nearly eight o’clock and he was running late. Despite the dampness of the grass and the black shadows waiting to trip him up, he decided to take the short cut across the churchyard to Mrs Goldie’s house. The gate at the bottom of the Rectory garden clanged behind him; a bird fluttered from its roost, startled and disorientated.
Pale headstones gleamed in the moonlight, frost forming on their weathered faces. As parish priest he was, of course, unmoved by the fears and superstitions of the villagers. After all, what could be more comforting than being gathered round the ankles of the church, listening to the living singing praises to the Almighty and lying next to generations of one’s family and neighbours until the end of time? He had once articulated this thought to Fenella, and been met with an incredulous stare.
What would eternity feel like, he wondered? Each moment so perfect that a thousand years would pass like a day, or each day last for a thousand years? Even on earth, time expanded and contracted in mysterious ways. Was it only three weeks since he had received the e-mail from his friend Samuel Goodman outlining the need for a bore hole in the African village of Igbo Tambo? That was when the idea for a fund raising committee had been born.
Coincidentally, he had received a Christmas card from Fenella on the same day. The Lord had told her they had no future together, she had written. Father Anthony wished the Lord had spoken to him about the matter, particularly before he made a fool of himself by singing her a love song and posting it on YouTube. It was strange that God, who held the delicate balance of the universe in his mind, should have had the time and inclination to tell Fenella to start dating an American dentist called Chuck. Perhaps the bureaucracy of a new committee would dull the sting of his pierced and bloodied heart.
He skirted along the north side of the church, fumbling in his pocket, a folder of committee papers wedged tightly under his arm. This file was the fruit of several evenings spent reading reports from Togo, West Africa.
A fat cloud scudded across of the moon. He switched on his torch, unearthed from the depths of his winter coat. The light flashed onto a nearby stone. The inscription read:
Joseph John Kirkland
Lived with his wife Harriet Jane
for over forty years
Died 21 January 1903
Renouncing hell and trusting in the
hope of a better life.
Next to this was the
headstone of the wife.
Here lies Harriet Jane Kirkland
1842 - 1920
Silent at last.
His torch flicked to the right and left as he crunched along the shingle path; it seemed to him that the churchyard was filled with married couples, buried by grief stricken children.
Albert George Heskith
20 April 1891 - 12 September 1962
Leaves wife Catherine and son
Ronald
Hoping for an inheritance that will
never perish, spoil or fade
His
throat constricted. Would he find someone to lie in the soft earth next to him
in the years to come? Was there someone to love him in life and wait with him
in death for the final resurrection? Would he leave children to mourn his
passing? He thought not. Mentally spurning the self-pity which threatened to engulf the evening, the Vicar quickened his step. It was a New Year. Time for a new start! The darkest days were behind, that dreary stretch between Midnight Mass (when his parishioners disappeared into the bosom of their families for the duration of the festive season) and New Year’s Day (when they suddenly reappeared in the local newsagents and chemist shops to purchase milk, Alka-Seltzer and emergency contraception). Dark days and dark nights indeed, hiding in the Rectory, unwashed, unshaven and alone, possessed by a kind of madness, thankfully now passed.
He turned a corner and began to walk in the direction of the compost heap at the far end of the cemetery. Here was the gate leading onto the Village Green. Looking up from the uneven path, he was startled to see a small light hovering some distance ahead. He switched off his torch. Who could be lingering in the churchyard on an icy Friday night? Kids? Vandals? Thieves? Drug dealers? Lovers? He stepped backwards into the shadow of the church, his shoulder resting against the grey stone wall.
The light was directed downwards. The stranger was standing in the place where the ashes of those recently cremated were interred or scattered. There were rows of small plaques and vases of artificial flowers squeezed closely together for lack of space. Father Anthony knew that drug dealers sometimes left small packets hidden under stones and in pots - drop offs agreed over the internet and paid for through PayPal. Perhaps this was a customer searching for his weekend indulgence.
The light held still for some moments. Father Anthony buried his hands in his coat pockets. It was too cold to stand here much longer and he was going to be late. He should either walk past, trusting it wasn’t a mugger, or turn around and walk the long way to Mrs Goldie’s house on the road.
He was just about to walk back the way he had come when the light moved upwards and bobbed back and forth. Father Anthony shrank closer to the wall of the church. The beam approached, swaying to the left and right with each footstep. As long as the stranger’s light was trained on the path, the Vicar would be hidden in the deep shadows.
The uneven crunch of footsteps cut through the cold night air. A tall shape loomed out of the shadows. It was impossible to make out the stranger’s features because the light from the torch plunged everything surrounding it into even deeper gloom. The shape passed. Father Anthony turned to watch the figure walk away and saw the silhouette of a tall man wearing an old fashioned trilby hat. He was limping slowly, leaning heavily on a stick.
No comments:
Post a Comment