The Magus of Hay(9)

‘I’ve read widely. I’ve been head teacher at schools where Christian worship was observed. Something now frowned on. My attitude to this was, I suspect, one reason I was offered early retirement.’



‘Mmm. The way things have been going for quite a while. Look, can I…? You keep referring to Alys in the present tense. As if you’re not sure she’s gone.’

‘Of course she isn’t gone.’ Faint lines of disapproval were deepening either side of Sylvia Merchant’s mouth. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to convey to you.’

‘You… obviously don’t want her to be gone.’

‘She needs me. As I’ve needed her. On a number of levels. She very quickly became the best secretary, the best assistant I’d ever had. And then the best friend.’

Apart from the traffic, silence. Ms Merchant had reached a point beyond which she saw no reason to continue.

‘She died quite suddenly,’ Merrily said.

‘Very suddenly and unexpectedly. Didn’t want to go. Robbed of nearly half a life. She didn’t – and doesn’t – want to go.’

‘I’m sorry, but… it’s not easy for you to know that, is it?’

‘I do know. It’s entirely clear to me.’

‘Although you must also recognize, from your reading, that it’s not… natural.’

‘And how do you know that, Mrs Watkins?’

God. Never before, in a bereavement situation, had she faced a theological inquisition.

All she could give was the stock answer.

‘All religions take the view that the spirit, after death, moves on. Wants – and needs – to move on. Sometimes… there might be problems of withdrawal. For example – and I’m not qualified to express an opinion on this – but if Alys thinks your life will be unliveable without her, she might be held back. It could be up to you to help her.’

‘I intend to help her.’

‘And… I can help you to do that. If you like.’

‘And what would you advise?’

‘Well… there are situations – and this is far more common with parents who’ve lost children – where the child’s room is preserved as a shrine. Which is understandable, but not, long term, a good idea. The shrine should be… in the parent’s mind. Where the nature of it will usually be changed by time. Whereas the bedroom shrine will only come to resemble a museum.’

‘The bed.’

Sylvia Merchant was on her feet. She was very tall.

Merrily said, ‘An empty bed… waking up to an empty bed… keeping an empty bed in the same room…’

‘You’re saying I should get rid of Ms Nott’s bed?’

‘I can help you… if you like… to move it into another room?’

‘Why would I want that?’

‘She didn’t die in it, did she? She died in hospital. You could sell the bed. Or give it away. There are places always looking for good furniture.’

‘It is not an empty bed,’ Ms Merchant said.

Merrily said nothing. The shadow fronds of a willow tree in the garden wavered on the lemon wall above the beds. She felt constricted in the typist’s chair. Had the chair always been here, or had it been brought up after Alys Nott’s death?

‘I don’t understand, Sylvia. Why did you want me to come? Why me?’

‘Because I’m a Christian. Because we’re both Christians. Because there was no one to pray for her when she died. I’d like you to pray for her now.’

‘I’m sorry. Of course I will.’

Prayers. She could do that. No formal ritual at this stage. You could devise your own, as mild or as explicit as you felt necessary. The prayers would be for peace. And afterwards you might leave written prayers behind. Simple lines which could be uttered like a mantra. And then there might be further visits. Aftercare. And, gradually, the atmosphere would change.

Or it should.

‘Here?’ Merrily said. ‘Now?’

‘If you wish.’

‘Do you think I could alter the positioning of this chair?’

Sylvia Merchant smiled.



‘It won’t. That’s the position Ms Nott had it for years.’

‘Right.’

For a moment, Merrily found it hard to draw breath and sprang up, too quickly, from the chair.

A moment later, the chair creaked.

God.

Sylvia Merchant’s eyes were alight.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘we are all here. The three of us.’





5

Fix it


THAT EVENING, ROBIN read the book, Betty read the tarot.

Outside, kids were yelling and neighbours mowing their tidy, right-angled lawns, the ones that hadn’t been turned into extra parking space for their goddamn people-carriers.