‘Of course I will. I can bring the pots over to the grave and give the headstone a clean while you’re praying,’ he said obligingly.
‘Grand. I’ll go and put on my face then.’ She smiled at him, and he thought how cool she was to still insist on putting on her Max Factor powder and lipstick before going anywhere.
The small country church was sombrely shadowy, illuminated only by banks of glowing, flickering candles burning in the shrines in front of the altar and at the sides. A couple of people knelt beside the old-fashioned box waiting for confession, and a few elderly parishioners knelt in the front pew reciting the Rosary. Jonathan escorted Nancy up the aisle and heard her give a little gasp as she genuflected. Her arthritis was troubling her but she wouldn’t give in to it. She was a real trouper, he thought proudly as she moved along the seat to join the others, some of whom he recognized.
‘Hello, Jonathan,’ came the murmured greetings and he saluted the ones he knew before they resumed the prayers that Nancy’s arrival had interrupted.
He sat for a while letting the peace of his surroundings envelop him. He had always liked the Forty Hours as a child. The altar would be beautifully dressed, with splendid arrangements of flowers, and the candelabra that were only used for special ceremonies ablaze with long tapers, spilling illumination on the ornate golden monstrance, which had always reminded him of a rising sun.
The faint scent of incense mixed with candlewax wafted down from the altar and Jonathan inhaled it, remembering how much he had enjoyed being an altar boy, especially if he was given the responsibility of swinging the thurible. The first time he had been on censing duty Father Deasy had had to admonish him for swinging the gleaming brass censer too enthusiastically, a voluminous cloud of charcoal smoke and incense enveloping them on the altar.
He smiled at the recollection. Today would have been a day for three double swings, if memory served, as it was a day of public veneration, but there were no more young altar servers to swing thuribles. All the clerical child-abuse scandals had put paid to that.
An elderly priest made his way to the sacristy. Jonathan didn’t recognize him. He must have been a visiting priest hearing confessions. He wore a cassock. It was a long time since he’d seen a priest in a cassock. Jonathan had rather fancied himself in his own one. He loved the swish of it around his ankles. Always the little queen, he smiled, remembering how much he’d loved his robes.
He genuflected and made his way out to the blustery September sunshine and walked over to where he’d parked. He’d brought a bucket, some cloths, a scrubbing brush and Flash spray and he shoved them all in the bucket, hung it on his arm and lifted out the two flowerpots from the boot.
‘Lazy man’s load,’ Nancy would have scolded if she’d seen him manoeuvring through the red swing gates that led to a side path in the graveyard. His father’s plot was neat and well tended as always. His sisters took Nancy to visit every week. Even after all these years she still took solace from the time she spent at her husband’s grave.
The tubs of pansies and geraniums already there were still blooming and fresh-looking, if in need of watering, so he laid his two pots beside them. ‘There you go, Dad,’ he said cheerfully, taking out his cleaning spray and squirting some over the marble headstone. He cleaned and polished, enjoying the sound of birdsong, and the somnolent buzzing of a fat stripy bumblebee that feasted on the blooms that adorned his father’s grave. He took the bucket and walked down to the tap at the side of the big iron gates and filled it. He’d give his own pots a drenching too. He noticed the priest who had been hearing confessions walking slowly along the pathway reading his breviary. He must be praying his office, he mused, remembering how Father Deasy also used to walk around the graveyard to say his daily prayers. He used to say that the dead always gave him peace while the living pestered him.
Careful not to spill the water, Jonathan walked back towards the grave and he couldn’t help noticing how neglected Gus Higgins’s plot was. He paused and shifted the bucket of water to his left hand. His right one ached from where he had hit one of his knuckles with a hammer when upholstering a chair for Orla, his old friend and former flatmate.
There were weeds thrusting up through the cracked cement of the unkempt plot. It reminded Jonathan of that dreadful cracked weedy garden path he’d walked along, many times, to the Higginses’ front door.
‘Hope you’re screaming in hell,’ he muttered, thinking that if Hannah heard him she would despair of his progress towards forgiveness. That wasn’t really fair! Sorry, Hannah, he silently apologized. His counsellor never despaired of him or judged him.
‘Nice to see the younger generation honouring the dead.’ The priest came abreast of him and lowered his breviary.
‘Not that young, unfortunately,’ sighed Jonathan. ‘And I’m certainly not honouring this creep,’ he added a touch bitterly.
‘Oh dear! And why would you malign the dead so?’ The priest raised a bushy eyebrow, staring at Jonathan disapprovingly.
‘Because he was very malign to me, actually, if you must know,’ Jonathan retorted rudely, highly annoyed at the unexpected interrogation.
‘How so?’ came the next imperious question.
‘He abused me when I was a child.’ Jonathan glowered at the cleric.
‘Tsk, tsk,’ the old man tutted, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Oh, OK,’ Jonathan replied, slightly mollified.
‘And have you spoken to your confessor? I’m sure you have after all this time.’ The priest eyed him keenly.
‘Why would I do that?’ Jonathan asked, mystified.
‘For forgiveness, my son.’
‘Forgiveness for whom?
